WILL  SHAKESPEARE 
OF  STRATFORD  A> 
LONDON :  A  DRA 


;rosby  mi 


WILL  SHAKESPEARE 

OF 
STRATFORD  AND  LONDON 


WILL  SHAKESPEARE 


OF 


STRATFORD  AND  LONDON 


A  DRAMA  IN  FOUR  ACTS 


BY 


MARGARET  CROSBY  MUNN 


>   ,  •   > 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1910 


Copyright,  iqio,  by 
MARGARET  CROSBY    MUNN 

All  rights,  including  dramatic  rights,  reserved 
by  Margaret  Crosby  Munn 

Published,  May,  1910 


To 
George  Frederick  Munn 


M18S576 


APOLOGIA 

To  the  Spirit  of  William  Shakespeare 

If  the  light  of  an  obscure  Imagination 
Has  touched  for  a  moment  some  aspects  of 

Your  Veiled  Life, 
Let  its  reverent  apology  be  that  the  dream, 

Whether  false  or  true,  was  unsought, 
And  that  it  was  noble  enough  not  to  be  allowed 

To  perish  unrecorded. 


The  vital  and  illuminated  portrayal  of  Hamlet 
of  Johnston  Forbes-Robertson  was  the  direct  in- 
spiration of  this  play.  In  some  subtle  and  inexplic- 
able manner  the  genius  of  the  actor  revealed  to  one 
listener,  at  least,  the  heart  and  soul  of  Shakespeare, 
even  more,  if  possible,  than  that  of  Hamlet,  and  so 
to  my  friend,  the  Player,  I  record  my  grateful  ac- 
knowledgment. 

M.  C.  M.     ■ 


WILL  SHAKESPEARE 

A  PLAY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 
CHARACTERS  IN  THE  PLAY 
William  Shakespeare 
Earl  of  Southampton 
Earl  of  Essex 

William  Herbert    (called  Lord  Herbert,  after- 
wards Earl  of  Pembroke) 
Sir  Thomas  Lucy 

Bailly — Chief  Constable  of  Stratford 
Taverner — Second  Constable  of  Stratford 
Foulke  Sandells  j  Friends  of  the  mother  of 
John  Richardson  j         Anne  Hathaway 

Swaief^  \  Stratford  Lawyers 

Heminge  )  R 

Greene  )        J 

£?Dumpser   }  Pages  of  Southampton 

Mistress  Elisabeth  Vernon,  cousin  of  the  Earl 
of  Essex. 

Anne  Hathaway,  afterwards  Anne  Shakespeare 

Countess  of  Rutland 

Lady  Bridget  Manners,  daughter  of  Countess 
of  Rutland 

Phillida:  Gentlewoman  in  waiting  to  Elizabeth 
Vernon 

Lords,  Ladies,  Players,  Gentlemen-in-wait- 
ing, Pages,  Constables,  Yeomen,  Huntsmen, 
Pikemen  and  Villagers. 


ACT  I 

The  Caging  of  the  Phoenix 

1582 
A  Forest  Glade  in  Charlecote  Park,  the  coun- 
try-seat  of   Sir  Thomas   Lucy,  near   Stratford-on- 
Avon. 

ACT  II 
The  Flight 
1586 
Interior  of  the  home  of  Shakespeare  in  Strat- 
ford-on-Avon 

ACT  III 

[Twelve  Years  Later]* 

The  Lure  of  Elisabeth 

May,  1598 
The  Inner  Court  of  the  London  House  of  the 
Earl  of  Southampton. 

ACT  IV 

The  Pyre — The  New   Phoenix  Rises   from 
the  Ashes 
June,  1598 

The  Terrace  and  Garden  of  the  Country 
House  of  the  Earl  of  Southampton. 

The  action  of  the  play  takes  place  between 
the  years  1582  and  1598. 

Four  years  are  supposed  to  have  elapsed  be- 
tween Acts  I.  and  II.;  twelve  years  between 
Acts  II.  and  III. ;  four  weeks  between  Acts  III. 
and  IV. 


ACT  I 

THE    CAGING    OF    THE    PHOENIX 
1582 


ACT   I 

THE    CAGING    OF    THE    PHOENIX 
1582 

Scene:  \A  Forest  Glade  in  Charlecote 
'Park,  the  country  seat  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
near  Str  at  ford-on- Avon.  A  background  of 
forest  vistas.  At  left  back  a  stream,  sug- 
gested by  low  sloping  banks.  At  left  front 
the  tangled  roots  of  great  oaks  and  beeches, 
and  small  rocks  and  mounds  of  moss  appear 
above  the  sloping  ground.  Forest  trees 
Hank  each  side  of  the  stage.  At  the  right, 
between  an  avenue  of  trees  there  is  a  space 
of  greensward  and  then  more  trees.  The 
whole  scene  suggests  a  remote  sylvan  soli- 
tude. The  glimpses  of  sky  and  the  long 
shadows  indicate  that  the  hour  is  near  sunset. 
A  man's  voice  is  heard  at  left.  Before  the 
curtain  rises  men's  voices  are  calling  loudly 
to  each  other.) 


2  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

TAVERN  ER 

[From  a  distance.] 
Where   Away?     Bailly!     I'm   lost! 

BAILLY 

[Enters  clambering  over  roots  and  rocks 
at  left  front.] 

I'm  here,  come  on ! 

TAVERNER 

[Nearer.'] 
Come  where? 

BAILLY 

Here  Fool! 

TAVERNER 

[Enters    stumbling    and    climbing    with 
difficulty  over  the  roots,  etc.] 

Well  said,  but  fool  no  more ! 

BAILLY 

How  will  you  compass  that  ? 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  3 

TAVERNER 

[Groaning.]     My  back!    My  legs! 

When  young  I  wished  to  be  a  forester. 

My  father  balked  my  will.  [Still  stumbling 
and  clambering.]     These  twisted  roots 

And  knife-edged  rocks  have  won  my  mind 
to  his 

More  than  five  years  of  well-planned  argu- 
ment! 

This  poaching  lad  may  trap  and  catch  and 
kill 

The  deer,  the  fish,  the  birds  of  Charlecote 
Park 

Till  all  this  Forest-land  is  still  and  void, 

But  I'll  not  hunt  him  more!    I'll  be  no  more 

A  constable.     I'll  tell  Sir  Thomas  so. 

I  will  resign. 


BAILLY 

Resign?    You  speak  with  courage! 
What  shall  you  do   for  work?    How  live? 
How  eat? 


4  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

TAVERNER 

Think  you  I'll  be  a  constable  forever? 
/  have  ambitions.     I'm  an  ambitious  man. 
I'm  going  to  be  a  miller!    Look  through  the 
trees 
[Enter  from  back  six  or  seven  yeomen 
armed  with  pikes  and  staves.'] 
Where  come  our  Guard! 

[Taverner   goes    to    meet   yeomen   and 
they  greet  each  other.] 


BAILLY 

No  parleying,  my  friends. 
Bestow  yourselves  deep  in  the  wood's  green 

heart, 
Crouch  in  the  underbrush,  hide  behind  rocks; 
Be  very  still  and  secret,  but  be  keen. 
We'll  keep  this  place — Go  you  to  right  and 

left, 
So  every  point  be  guarded  quite,  and  when 
You  hear  three  whistles,  let  you  loose  to  me, 
Like  gulls  that  swoop  together  to  one  spot 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  5 

Upon  the  sea,  where  floats  the  silly  fish. 
Be  off! 

THE    YEOMEN 

Ay  surely,  sir. 

BAILLY 

Stay  not  too  near. 
Note  well !  Be  hidden,  and  He  close  to  earth, 
So  your  dun   doublets  and  green  caps  and 

cloaks 
Mingle  with  leaf  and  earth  and  grow  to- 
gether. 
Be  off,  remember  well  my  words! 

[The  yeomen  go  to  right  and  left  and 
back  and  disappear.  Voices  are 
heard  at  left.    Bailly  listens.'] 

What's  that? 

TAVERNER 

A  woman's  voice.    No  fear! 

BAILLY 

A  hopeless  fool! 
Deep  voices  sound  between  the  higher  tones-— 


6  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

A  flute  and  two  bass-viols!     Some  gypsy-folk 

Wander    the   wood,    seeking    to    pitch    their 
tents. 

They'll  not  stop  here;  these  trees  are  massed 
too  thick. 

We'll  hide,  and  when  they  pass  we'll  keep 
our  watch 

Until  the  deer  and  does  come  down  to  drink; 

Then  shall  we  catch  our  stag. 

[Goes  to  back  as  voices  approach.] 

Be  quick!  They  come! 
[Bailly  and  Taverner  disappear  entirely 
amidst  the  trees  at  back,  ,  Enter  has- 
tily  Anne  Hathaway  followed  by 
Foulke  Sandells  and  John  Richardson, 
both  elderly  men,  through  the  clearing 
where  the  stream  is  supposed  to  flow 
at  left  back.] 

ANNE    HATHAWAY 

[Turning   indignantly   on  Sandells   and 
Richardson. .] 
Let  me  alone !     Why  do  you  follow  me  ? 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  7 

SANDELLS 

Why  do  you  follow  him  ? 

ANNE 

Why  question  me? 
You  well  know  that  I  will  not  answer  you. 
I  scarce  escaped  the  village  street  this  noon, 
When   in  the  lane  that  leads  to  Charlecote 

wood, 
Your  shadows  fell  upon  the  sunny  road 
Before   my   eyes.    Your   footsteps    followed 

mine. 
At  qvery  turn  I  looked  and  hard  behind 
Panting   for  bseath,  with  curious  eyes,  you 

came. 
This  wood  is  free  to  rest  or  walk  or — weep. 
Yet  in  this  solitude  you  spy  me  out. 
'T  is  infamous!  , 

RICHARDSON 

Your  mother  bade  us  come. 
That  is  our  warrant.     That  our  whole  ex* 
cuse. 


8  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

If  such  needs  be.     [to  Sandells.~\     An  open 

question,  Foulke? 
This  wood  is  free,  as  Anne  most  justly  says! 
For  us  to  stray  in — as  it  is  for  her. 

SANDELLS 

Your  mother  bade  us  come  and  bring  you 
home. 

ANNE 

[Scornfully.'] 
My  mother  dreams ! 

RICHARDSON 

To  wake  you  from  your  dream! 
That  you  a  woman  grown  and  ripe  in  years 
Should  spend  your  life  in  wasteful  worship  of 
A  Boy! — ev'n  worse,  a  pestilential  thief! 
A    Law-Defier, — twice    whipt    and    once    in 

prison. 
An     empty     purse — an     empty     house — an 

empty  head ! 
Beggared   in   all   that   makes    life    rich    and 

full 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  9 

Yet  of  such  mad  and  wanton  mirth  fulness, 
That   he   goes    singing    through   the   village 

streets 
His  eyes  oft  skyward  fixed,  his  step  so  light 
That  one  might  dream  he'd  chanting  mount 

to  heaven, 
Like    any    meadow-lark!    ...    a   public 

shame ! 


SANDELLS 

Anne,  he  speaks  truth;  you  must  give  up  this 
lad. 

RICHARDSON 

This    marriage    shall    not    be,    your   mother 

swears. 
See  him  no  more.     See  that  you  give  him  up. 


ANNE 

[With  restrained  anger.] 
How  then  resign  that  one  possesses  not? 
There  is  no  thought  of  marriage.    I  am  free. 


io  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

RICHARDSON 

You  play  with   words.     To  what   does   dal- 
liance lead? 
[They  both  draw  near  her  where   she 
stands  in  centre.  ] 
Before  you  we  would  place  the  steely  shield 
Of  our  protection.  Lead  you  to  solid  ground. 
And  all  this  may  be  if  you  give  him  up. 


ANNE 

[With  intensity  of  anger  and  drawing 
back  toward  left;  they  follow. ,] 
For  once,  I'll  speak,  Sandells  and  Richardson. 
Does  it  protect  me  that  you  spy  on  me, 
Distract  my  only  hour  of  quietness, 
Tear  from  my  heart  its  sacred  woman's  veil 
And   peep    upon    its    bleeding?     O    I    could 

laugh 
If  anger  did  not  make  me  nearer  tears! 
Beggared  he  is?    What  of  it?    We  are  rich. 
An  empty  head  devoid  of  all  but  song? 
My  head  counts  pennies  all  day  long  at  home ! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  n 

Place    me    on    solid    ground?    I    know    no 

ground 
That's   firm   except    my   love.     It  bears   me 
well. 
[Advances  swiftly  toward  the  two  men 
who  draw  away  terrified.] 
Go  tell  my  mother  I  obedience  owe 
To  none.     I  cannot  be  coerced  or  led — 
And  opposition  to  my  fixed  will 
Turns  all  my  blood  to  poison  in  my  veins. 
Hate  of  your  meddling  consumes  me  now — 
Go — go — my  rage  is  mounting  to  my  brain, 
Hardening  my  heart.     Had  I  been  left  alone 
Good  might  have  come.     Peace  to  my  moth- 
er's life, 
Prosperity     to    him    I   love.     .    ..    .    All's 
gone! 
[Turns  to  left  back  and  flings   herself 
down  near   one  of  the  moss-covered 
mounds  and  leans  against  it,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands,  trembling. 
Sandells  and  Richardson   stand   con- 
fused in  centre  watching  her."] 


12  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SANDELLS 

Shall  we  speak  more? 

RICHARDSON 

Since  that  she  was  a  child, 
Her  mood  once  turned  to  anger  changes  not. 

SANDELLS 

We'll  go. 

RICHARDSON 

I'll  tell  her  mother  what  she  says. 

SANDELLS 

Facing  her  anger  all  my  mind  was  changed. 

RICHARDSON 

The  truth  she  spoke  cut  deep  into  my  heart, 
And  made  our  studied  preachment  lies. 

SANDELLS 

Suppose — she    marries     him?    What     harm 
would  come? 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  13 

In  very  truth  her  mother's  rich  for  three. 
He  might  quit  poaching  if  his  purse  were  full, 
And  we'd  be  free  from  warding  of  the  maid ! 


RICHARDSON 

The  mating  of  an  eagle  and  a  hawk! 

Cage  him  and  he  would  die,  and  she  would 

plunge 
Her  talons  in  his  heart.     This  should  not  be! 
She  is  a  woman  too — these  fifteen  years — 
He — in  the  very  prime  of  callowness! 


SANDELLS 

There's  no  solution  else. 

RICHARDSON 

[Hastily.]     She's  stirring!    Let  us  go! 

SANDELLS 

It  is  the  way  of  wisdom! 


i4  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

RICHARDSON 

Follow  me! 
We'll  all  rehearse  unto  her  mother.     Come! 
[Exit — Richardson  and  Sandells  softly 
at  left  front.] 

ANNE 

[Raising  her  arms  with  a  wild  gesture.] 
Will!    Will!    Will!    Will! 

[She  again  buries  her  head  on  her  arms 
and  lies  stilL  A  pause  follows.  The 
greensward  between  the  long  avenue 
of  trees  at  right  is  more  brightly 
lighted  by  sunlight  than  the  centre 
and  left  of  the  stage  which  is  more 
shaded  by  the  trees.  At  the  furthest 
end  of  this  sunlit  avenue  a  youth 
about  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  old 
enters.  His  air  is  that  of  joyous  irre- 
sponsibility. He  comes  to  front  very 
slowly  with  a  loitering  step,  constantly 
stopping  and  looking  up  into  the  trees 
as  if  watching  the  birds.    He  has  a  gun 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  15 

and  fishing-rod  and  tackle  slung  on  his 
back.  About  half-way  down  the  ave- 
nue there  is  a  clump  of  fiowers  grow- 
ing at  the  foot  of  a  large  tree.  He 
stops  and  bends  to  look  at  them. 
Then  he  lifts  off  his  gun  and  fishing- 
rod  and  lays  them  on  the  grass  behind 
the  tree.  He  gathers  the  fiowers  and 
after  carefully  examining  them  he 
kisses  them  and  puts  them  in  the  belt 
of  his  doublet  and  goes  on  slowly  to 
front.    All  the  while  he  is  singing.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Sings.] 

O  love  me  not  when  I  am  dead! 

[When  low  lies  heart  and  head.] 
O  praise  me  not  when  I  am  gone ! 
[The  years  are  hastening  on.] 

The  crowns  of  love  and  happiness 
That  would  my  eager  spirit  bless, 
Give  to  me  now,  nor  do  thou  wait 
Until  it  be  too  late,  too  late! 


16  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

[While  he  sings  he  pauses  frequently  to 
stoop  and  look  at  flowers  and  herbs, 
and  then  goes  on  again.  He  comes  to 
front  and  turning  to  cross,  sees  Anne 
Hathaway  at  left  back.  He  raises  his 
hands  and  lets  them  fall  in  half- 
amused,  careless  surprise.] 

Again  the  stormy  Anne! 
[Goes  nearer.] 
How  low  she  lies,  poor  Petrel !    Beaten  down 
Into  the  deepest  hollow  of  the  waves 
By  the  wild  tempest  she  herself  creates. 
I'll  blow  my  gentlest  breeze  and  bring  a  calm ! 
[He  goes  softly  to  back  and  bends  over 
Anne,  standing  beside  her  so  that  his 
face  is  seen.] 
She's  sleeping! — While  her  face  is  wet  with 

tears 
And     wrung     by     violence     within — Sleep! 

Sleep ! 
Poor  tortured  soul !     In  thy  sea-depths 
There  lies  the  Pearl  of  Peace — while  thou  art 
still 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  ly 

'Twill  slowly  rise,  milk-white  and  luminous 
And  spread  a  tranquil  balm!  Sleep!  Sleep! 
[He  withdraws  and  goes  toward  the  tree 
where  his  gun  is  lying.  Before  he 
reaches  it,  Anne  stirs  and  raising  her 
head  sees  him.  She  hurriedly  rises — 
stands  irresolutely, — then  smoothes 
her  hair  with  her  hands  and  goes 
toward  Shakespeare  who  does  not  yet 
see  that  she  has  waked. ] 

'anne 
[In  a  slightly  supplicating  tone.] 

Will!     [then  louder]  Will! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Turning  quickly.] 
Your  sleep  was  short.     Pray  Heaven  it  was 
sweet. 

ANNE 

[Coming  nearer  to  him.] 
Why  are  you  wandering  in  the  wood  to-day? 


18  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  have  a  tryst. 

ANNE 

[Impulsively,  and  with  suspicion.'] 

A  tryst?     What  village  maid 
Pursues  you  to  the  heart  of  Charlecote  Park? 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  simplicity  and  humor.] 
None  Anne,  save  you. 

ANNE 

[With  impatience.] 

Men  make  not  trysts  with  men. 

SHAKESPEARE 

With  no  man's  son  am  I  pledged  here  to-day. 

ANNE 

[With  growing  irritability.] 
You  veil  the  truth  with  double  answering. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  19 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  mischievous  simplicity.'] 
I  speak  the  simple  truth.     Nor  doth  maid  nor 

man 
Entice  me  here.     [Anne  looks  relieved.] 

And  yet  I  trysting  come! 
[Anne  again  is  angry.] 
The    truth    perturbs    your    mind.     Let    me 

try  Fancy  now. 
[He  speaks  with  mystery,  drawing  close 

to  her.] 
A  Dryad  haunts  this  wood;  she  loves  a  Faun. 
Her  steps  tread  down  the  earth  beneath  her 

feet 
As  do  a  Queen's  the  footstool  for  her  state. 
Her  parted,  burnished,   brown-gold,  curling 

hair 
Shadows  her  whitest  forehead  and  her  brows 
Lie  sternly  level  over  proud,  deep  eyes, 
That   know    their    rule    over   men's   roving 

hearts. 
Her  lips,  a  rose's  petals,  nobly  carved, 


20  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

•Fulfil  her  eyes  despotic  ravishing: 

And  with  her  comes  the  fragrant,  woodland 

breath 
Of  sylvan  glades  recessed,  and  hidden  pools 
Where  she  has  loved  and  dreamed  through 

thund'rous  nights. 

ANNE 

[With  fierce  jealousy. ] 
You  speak  of  a  real  woman.    Is't  not  true? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Who  is  more  real  than  she  of  whom  I  dream  ? 
Last  night  by  starlight  I  lay  musing  here 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept.    Her   faun  was 

false,  / 

A   Nixie's  thrall.     Her   vengeance   I've   as- 
sumed. 
The  Faun  and  I  will  fight  at  set  of  sun. 
Ev'n  now  I  think  I  see  his  leaf-crowned  head 
Peering  upon  me  from  behind  that  oak, 
And  hear  the  drawing  of  his  bow — 

[He  advances  with  sudden  swiftness  to 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE 


21 


'Anne  and  takes  her  arm  and  points  to 
a  tree  at  right  near  front.'] 

There!    There! 

ANNE 

[Who  has  listened  and  looked  as  if  un- 
der a  spell,  screams  and  hides  her  face 
on  his  arm.] 

0  pity— save  me!    I  am  terrified. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[First  laughs  lightly — then  as  she  moves 
from  him  and  he  sees  her  frightened 
face  he  becomes  grave.] 

1  ever  am  at  fault  with  you.    I  thought 

To  bring  your  smiles.    Instead,  I  rouse  your 
fears. 
[Still  more  gravely.] 
My  idle  fantasy  must  not  delay 
Your    homeward-tending    steps.    See!    The 

sun  sinks! 
Your  mother  watches  for  you;  you  must  go. 
[He  leads  her  gently  to  left  and  she,  as 


22  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

if  still  under  a  spell,  yields.  Suddenly 
she  stops  and  again  speaks  with  sus- 
picion.'] 

ANNE 

True,  it  is  late.    Why  then  stay  here  alone? 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  never  am  alone. 

ANNE 

[Violently. 1     You  falsify! 
I  spied  you  quite  alone  this  very  hour. 

SHAKESPEARE 

A  vast  procession  endlessly  defiles 
Along  the  tortuous  avenues  of  my  brain. 
This  wood  would  be  the  highway  of  the  world 
If  they  should  throng  its  aisles.     Lovers  and 

queens, 
Kings,    courtiers,    fairies,    maids,    spirits   of 

earth, 
And  Heaven,  are  crowding  here. 
[Touches  head.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  23 

Some  not  far  day, 
They'll  steal  into  my  heart  and  live. 


ANNE 

[With  dense  bewilderment.'] 

My  word! 
I  understand  you  not. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Delay  you  not. 

ANNE 

With  hard  discourtesy  you  drive  me  hence. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Not  so.     But  have  it  so  if  so  you  will. 
[Urges  her  gently  to  leftJ] 

ANNE 

Cruel!    You  suffer  not — you  know  not  grief. 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  suffer,  yet  am  not  unhappy,  Anne. 
How  pertinently  you  half  speak  the  truth. 


24  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

ANNE 

Danger     still     hedges     you.     Your     father 

mourns — 
He  is  no  more  an  alderman,  'tis  said. 

SHAKESPEARE 

They've  dragged  his  robe  of  office  from  his 

back 
That  was  so  straight  with  pride;  for  a  just 

fine 
Last  week  he  could  not  even  four  pence  pay. 

ANNE 

I'll  pay  his  fines.     Such  trouble  should  not  be. 
[She  takes  out  her  purse  and  offers  him 
money.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Put  up  your  purse.     I'll  slave  or  sin  for  him, 
But    I'll   not    weep!     Something    is    singing 
here — 
[Touches  breast.] 
That  hidden  in  this  fooling  life  I  lead, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  25 

There  is  a  magic,  and  a  mystery 
Waiting  some  kiss  of  fate  to  spring  to  birth 
And  wrap  me  in  its  glow  and  ecstasy. 
That  is  reality — this  mere  trifling  play. 

[Anne  listens  bewildered.] 
Go   now.     No  longer  stay  your  steps.    Go 
now. 

ANNE 

You  are  a  boy.    Yet  in  your  eyes  and  voice 
You  are  a  master,  and  I  must  obey. 

[Exit  Anne.  Shakespeare  leads  her 
away  and  then  returns  and  springs 
gaily  toward  the  tree  behind  which  his 
gun  and  fishing-rod  are  lying.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Come   now,   my  trysting  deer!    My   father 

waits 
Hungering    sore.    My    trespass    wins    him 

strength. 
I'll   seek  my  traps  hid   deep  in  brush  and 

brake. 


26  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

[Exit  Shakespeare  carrying  gun,  etc.,  at 
left  back  near  stream.  The  sound  of 
horses  and  carriage  approaching  by 
the  grassy  avenue  at  right  is  heard. 
A  little  boy's  voice  speaks,  just  out  of 
sight.  A  travelling  carriage  somewhat 
splendid  in  color  and  ornament  is 
driven  into  the  grassy  space  between 
the  trees  at  right.  The  postilions  turn 
on  their  horses  and  watch  while  the 
door  of  the  carriage  is  Hung  open  and 
a  little  boy  about  nine  years  old  tries 
to  get  out.  Two  men  inside  the  coach, 
dressed  in  the  most  fashionable  cos- 
tume of  the  period,  try  to  prevent  his 
alighting.  He  wears  a  courtier's  cos- 
tume of  pale  blue  satin  with  a  plumed 
hat,  and  curls  of  golden  auburn  fall  on 
his  shoulders.] 

EARL  OF  SOUTHAMPTON 

[Struggling  with  the  two  men.~\ 
I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  hinder  me  not! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  27 

I'll  walk  awhile  beside  the  stream. 

[He  frees  himself  and  springs  out  of 
the  carriage.] 

FIRST    GENTLEMAN 

[Follows  him.']  My  Lord, 

Lord  Burleigh  waits  for  you  at  Kenilworth. 

SECOND  GENTLEMAN 

[Also  getting  out  of  carriage.] 
We  are  in  honour  bound  to  hasten  there 
And  place  you  in  his  arms  without  delay. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

My  guardian  tells  his  wishes  all  to  me, 
And  I  obey  them — when  my  pleasure  suits. 
Then  he  is  happy  too  and  all  is  well. 

[Looks    up    the    river    and    claps    his 

hands.] 
I  see  a  darling  swan  that  slowly  floats 
Just — just  beyond  the  turning  of  the  stream ! 
[Both   the  gentlemen  roughly  take  his 

hands  and  try  to  lead  him  back  to  the 

carriage.] 


28  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

FIRST    GENTLEMAN 

Come,  come,  Lord  Southampton,  the  car- 
riages 

Outstrip  us  by  five  miles.  We  must  press  on. 
[Southampton  shakes  himself  free  and 
speaks  passionately.'] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

I  tell  you  if  my  Guardian  were  but  by 

He  would  be  happy  if  I  rested  here 

In  this  dear  wood.     I  would  be  here  alone. 

£  To  postilions."] 
Drive  on  a  little  space.    Quite  out  of  sight. 

[The   carriage   drives   on  just   out   of 
sight.] 

[To  Gentlemen.] 
Follow  the  carriage,  you,  else  I  shall  tell 
Lord  Burleigh  how  you  laid  rough  hands  on 

me. 
But  if  you  will  be  kind  and  grant  my  wish 

[Coaxingly.] 
My  little,  little  wish,  I'll  silence  keep. 
My  word  of  honour! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  29 

[The  two  gentlemen  who  have  looked 
alarmed,  confer  together  and  then  fol- 
low the  carriage,  first  bowing  low.} 

FIRST    GENTLEMAN 

Humbly,  we  obey. 
[Exit  gentlemen.  Southampton  stands 
in  centre.  Shakespeare  enters  from 
left  back  carrying  gun  in  his  hand. 
He  stops  in  surprise  at  the  sight  of 
Southampton  who  looks  at  him  with 
the  same  surprise.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

More  beautiful  than  was  my  Dryad!    Gods! 
He  is  not  real    ...    I  know  he  is  not 
real! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Who  are  you?    Will  you  shoot  me  with  your 

gun? 
I've  read  of  robbers—  [Co mes  closer.] 

May  I  see  your  cave? 
If  you  will  hide  me  there,  be  very  sure 
My  guardian  will  a  royal  ransom  pay. 


30  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

How  exquisite,  how   fair  his   fashioning — 
Heaven's     own    best    make!     How    tripping 

sweet  his  speech! 
Lovelier  than  all  my  dreams !     He  must  have 

strayed 
From  some  far,  magic  palace. 

[With  half  mocking  gaiety.'] 

Little  Prince 
Of  Fairyland,  my  gun  is  but  a  toy 
That  I  do  sometimes — play  a  little  with — 
As  you  yourself  do  sometimes  play,  mayhap, 
With  that  most  splendid  sword  slung  at  your 

side. 
Tell  me,  if  it  so  please  your  gracious  will, 
Whence  do  you  come  and  whither  do  you  go? 

SOUTHAMPTON 

You  speak  as  did  the  players  at  the  Queen's 
Great  birthday  feast  last  year, — but  gentlier. 
I  go  to  Kenilworth.     I  come  from  London. 

SHAKESPEARE 

How   rudely  he   dissolves  my  dream;    And 
yet 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  31 

The  charm  remains!    Merely  to  Kenilworth 
He  goes! 


SOUTHAMPTON 

I'm  tired  of  Kenilworth!     Instead 
I  would    stop   here  with  you  in  this   green 

wood, 
Swim  in  that  deep,  clear  stream,  follow  its 

curves 
And  touch  the  whitest  feather  of  that  swan. 
Then    gather    flowers    wild   and   sweet,   like 

those 
You  wear.     The  loveliest  I've  ever  seen! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Removing  flowers  from  his  belt.] 
Will  then  your  Highness  take  with  you  these 

flowers? 
The  only  homage  I  can  offer  now ! 
I     heard     once,     or     perhaps     I — merely — 

dreamed — 
Of  one  sweet,  weakling  soul — She  drowned 

for  grief! — 


32-  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Who   gathered    flowers    like   these, — it   may 

ha,ve  been — 
And  gave  them  ev'n  as  I  do  now, — and  told 
Their  names  with  fancies  such  as  these — 
[He  gives  the  flowers   one   by   one   to 

Southampton.] 

Here  is 
Tender  Forget-me-not,  and  here  Narcissus, 
'T  was   named    for  him  who  died  in  ages 

gone 
For  love  of  his  own  beauty.     So  might  you. 
And  Violets  that  mean  Love  and  Death — 

and  one 
Small,  sweet,  Blush  -Rose  to  nestle  at  your 

heart. 
[Southampton  looks  bewildered  at  his 

words  but  takes  the  flowers.'] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Looking  at  flowers.] 
Lovelier  than  those  they  plant  in  Kenilworth ! 

SHAKESPEARE 

In  Kenilworth  what  pastimes  will  refresh, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  33 

And    with    what    royal   comrades   shall   you 
meet? 


SOUTHAMPTON 

I'll  play  at  Bowls  and  Tennis  and  I'll  see 
The  Lady  Bridget  Manners. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Bridget  Manners! 

Sweet  powers  of  Melody!    But  what  a  name! 

Manners  should  mate  with — something  musi- 
cal! 

But  is  she  kind,  this  Bridget?  Does  your 
suit 

To  her  fare  sweetly?  Unfold  now  your  heart. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Pouting.]     She  flouts  me. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Ah!      How    more    than    passing    strange 
That  any  little  maid  so  hard  should  be. 


34  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

When  I  a  man  am  wax  to  my  heart's  core 
With  one  note  of  your  voice's  piercing  sweet ! 
{Enter  from  right  back,  timidly,  the  two 
gentlemen  in  waiting.] 


FIRST    GENTLEMAN 

[Humbly. 1 
My  Lord  of  Southampton,  the  hour  is  late. 


SECOND  GENTLEMAN 

Indeed,  we  fear  Lord  Burleigh's  wrath,  my 
Lord. 

The  while  this  woodland  hind  stands  parley- 
ing. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

I'll  keep  my  promise,  and  I  will  come  now. 
[The  two  gentlemen  look  at  Shakespeare 

rudely.'] 
Salute  this  gentleman.     He  is  my  friend. 
He   gave   me   these    sweet   flowers    and    he 

speaks 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  35 

Something  as  does  the  Queen,  when  she  com- 
mands 
And  every  one  obeys. 

[The  gentlemen  unwillingly  bow,  remov- 
.  ing  their  hats,  and  Shakespeare  re- 
turns the  bow  carelessly  but  with  equal 
courtesy.  Southampton  holds  out  his 
hand  to  Shakespeare  who  takes  it  in 
his  and  kisses  it.~\ 

You  have  been  kind 
To  me — I  wish  I  could  be  kind  to  you! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Remember  me,  when  to  your  Fairyland 

You  come. 

[Exit  Southampton  and  the  two  gentle- 
men  in  waiting  at  right  back.  Shake- 
speare stands  gazing  after  them  as  if 
in  a  dream.  The  sun-light  has  grown 
'dimmer  and  more  golden.  "A  crackling 
sound  is  heard  in  the  bushes  by  the 
stream  at  left  back.  Shakespeare 
'draws  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  if  he 


36  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

were  waking  from  sleep.  Then  with 
his  gun  in  his  hand,  held  ready  to 
shoot,  he  steals  swiftly  and  silently  to 
the  stream  and  crouches  down  by  the 
bushes,  in  sight  of  the  audience,  close 
to  where  the  sound  is  still  heard.  A 
pause.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Speaks  softly.] 

It  is  a  doe!    I'm  sorry  for't. 
I  can't  betray  the  curious  innocence 
Of   those   broad   brows,    that    gentle,   liquid 

gaze. 
I'll  catch  it  with  a  noose  and  take  it  home; 
And  when  my  father's  hunger's  fierce  within 

him, 
If  that  he  will,  he'll  kill  it  for  himself. 
So — So  — 

[He  unlooses  a  rope  slung  with  his  fish- 
ing tackle  and  making  a  noose  throws 
it  and  catches  the  doe  and  leads  it 
toward  the  front  centre  of  the  stage. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  37 

From  the  back,  from  behind  the  most 
distant  trees,  Tavemer  and  Bailly 
rush  forward  and  catch  Shakespeare 
by  the  arms.  Shakespeare  still  holding 
the  leash  flings  them  both  off  and  with 
the  doe  runs  to  back.  Bailly  puts  his 
whistle  to  his  lips  and  whistles  once 
loudly.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Laughing  as  he  begins  to  run,  after 
throwing  off  the  two  men.] 

A  merry  chase!    Your  sturdy  legs 
Against  my  long  ones! 

[Immediately  after  Bailly  blows  his 
whistle,  three  or  four  constables  and 
yeomen  run  forward  from  behind  the 
trees  at  back.  Shakespeare  sees  them 
and  turns  abruptly  to  left.  Bailly 
whistles  a  second  time  and  two  or  three 
more  appear  from  left  near  the  stream. 
Shakespeare  turns  to  right  but  as  he 
runs  toward  it  Bailly  whistles  a  third 


38  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

time  and  several  more  run  forward  at 
right    All  surround  Shakespeare.} 

SHAKESPEARE 

Ah!    Fm  caught!    Fm  caught! 
[He  struggles  with  the  men  and  throws 
them  off."] 
The  odds  against  me  are  by  far  too  strong. 
But  you,  at  least,  shall  go  unhurt  and  free. 
Go  little  Gentleness! 

[He  releases  doe  and  pushes  it  toward 
left  back  toward  the  stream.  The  doe 
slips  between  the  yeomen  and  disap- 
pears at  the  same  spot  where  it  first 
appeared.  Taverner  has  been  scram- 
bling to  his  feet  and  rubbing  his  back 
and  head.  He  rushes  forward  as  the 
men  again  seize  Shakespeare, ] 

TAVERNER 

Disarm  him!    Bind  him! 
[To  Shakespeare,  shaking  his  fist  in  his 
face.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  39 

You  Infamy!   You  murderous  young  Fiend! 

You  threw  me  down!  Flung  me,  a  man  of 
Place 

Upon  the  ground!  Bind  him  without  delay. 
[The  men  hesitate  and  then  tie  Shake- 
speare's  hands  behind  his  back,  after 
taking  his  gun,  etc.,  from  him. 
Shakespeare  submits.  He  wears  an  ex- 
pression of  alert  but  impersonal  in- 
terest in  what  is  happening.'] 

BAILLY 

[Coming  forward.] 
Why  do  you  bind  him?    He  cannot  escape. 

A  CONSTABLE 

*T  was  Master  Taverner  commanded  us. 

BAILLY 

That's  foolishness.  Unbind  forthwith  his 
hands. 

[To  Taverner.] 
It  shames  strong  men  to  bind  a  slender  youth. 

[The  men  obey.] 


40  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Smiles.     To  Bailly.] 
Why,  Sir,  you  have  a  fine  sense  of  propor- 
tion, 
And  I  thank  you. 

[He  shakes  hands  with  several  of  the 
men  in  succession.] 

Well  met  Colin, — Robin — 
Tame  hunting  for  you,  friends,  with  twenty 

hounds 
Full  cry  upon  a  solitary  hare! 

[Enter  hastily  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  from 
back,  accompanied  by  a  farm  bailiff, 
yeomen  and  huntsmen.  All  make  way 
for  him.  He  looks  about  the  group 
and  sees  Shakespeare.] 

BAILLY 

Sir  Thomas  Lucy ! 

SIR  THOMAS 

[To  Bailly.] 

You  have  trapped  your  stag! 
Your  whistles  borne  upon  the  evening  air 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  41 

Came  to  the  open  meadows  where  I  walk 
At  close   of   day,    and   told   the   game   was 

caught. 
[Goes     to     Shakespeare     and     speaks 

sternly.'] 
Your  thieving  vagabondage  now  shall  cease. 
No  more  in  Stratford  nor  in  Charlecote  Park 
Shall  you,  a  public  nuisance,  go  at  large. 
You  shall  be  whipt  again, — prisoned  again, — 
And  when  your  term  of  durance  has  an  end 
You    shall    be   banished    from   this   country 

side 
To  wander  outlawed  in  some  distant  land. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Earnestly,  as  if  agreeing  with  him.] 
Most  wisely  said!    Yet  sterner  than  is  need- 
ful. 

[While  Sir  Thomas  speaks,  Anne  Hatha- 
way has  re-entered  at  left,  followed  by 
Sandells  and  Richardson.  All  three 
look  anxious  and  agitated.  Anne  hears 
all  that  Sir  Thomas  says.    As  he  stops 


.42  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

speaking  she  goes  swiftly  to  Shake- 
speare with  a  cry  of  intense  grief. ] 


ANNE 

All  this  I  could  have  saved  you  from !  Ah  me ! 
[She  sinks  at  his  feet,  fainting.  Shake- 
speare and  Sandells  bend  over  her  and 
try  to  revive  her.  One  of  the  con- 
stables brings  water  from  the  stream 
in  a  cup.'] 

SIR  THOMAS 

Who  is  this  woman  ? 


RICHARDSON 

'T  is  Anne  Hathaway, 
Daughter  of  Richard  Hathaway — 

SIR   THOMAS 

Of  Shottery. 
If  memory  serves  me, right  he  died  last  year; 
I  held  him  in  my  high  esteem  and  trust: 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  43 

A  prosperous  man. — How  comes  his  daugh- 
ter here? 
What  is  this  out-at-elbow  scamp  to  her? 

RICHARDSON 

Your  Worship,  "Tis  a  most  unlucky  case. 
She  loves  him,  and  is  fain  to  marry  him. 

SIR  THOMAS 

His  bride  shall  be  the  chain  that  fetters  him. 

RICHARDSON 

[Insinuatingly.'] 
If   that   your   Worship   would     a   moment 
hear — ! 
[Sir  Thomas  silently  assents.] 

RICHARDSON 

Tis  one  of  those  strange  cases  that  defy 
The  will  of  man— th'  opposing  of  events. 
She  loves  him  and  is  fain  to  marry  him. 
She  may  not  be  turned  from  him.     But  in 

truth 
Her  mother's  rich  in  gold  and  loves  her  child! 


44  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Anne's  of  full  age — in  fact  these  long  years 

past! 
If  Will  were  freed,  she'd  surely  marry  him. 
If  that  the  penalties  your  Worship  names 
Could  be  transformed  by  magic  of  your  will 
To  fines,  that  could  be  paid  in  solid  coin 
To  be  disbursed  for  prospering  the  town 
She'd  gladly  pay  them  all.     Sandells  and  I 
Come  now  from  conference  in  the  wood  with 

her. 
Hearing  the  turmoil,  we  returned  together. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Who  has  overheard  what  Richardson  has 
said,  starts  away  from  Anne  Hatha- 
way and  draws  near  Sir  Thomas  and 
Richardson.'] 
Enough!     I'll  bear  my  punishment  alone. 

SIR  THOMAS 

[To  Shakespeare.] 
Silence  is  seeming  in  a  prisoner. 

[To  Richardson,  in  a  lower  tone.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  45 

There's  wisdom  in  your  thought;  but  there's 

no  edge 
In  money  that  will  clip  this  Eaglet's  wings. 
[Shakespeare    seems    about    to    speak, 

when  Richardson  silences  him   by  a 

gesture.'] 


RICHARDSON 

[Aside  to  Sir  Thomas.] 
If  you  will  grant  me,  sir,  a  moment's  speech 
With  this  unruly  youth,  my  words  may  tame, 
Where   whips   and   bars  have   maddened  to 
more  wildness. 


SIR  THOMAS 

Most  willingly. 

[Richardson   goes   to   Shakespeare   and 
draws  him  to  front  centre.] 

RICHARDSON" 

Listen!     Here  is  your  chance. 
The  last  youth  offers  you.     An  open  door 


46  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

To  freedom,  honour,  peace,  prosperity. 

Anne's  heart  is  yours,  why  not  your  life  for 
her? 

Her  mother  will  consent,  to  silence  tongues. 

If  these  things  do  not  move  your  will  per- 
verse, 

Bent  on  mere  wantonness  of  idling  sport; — 

Think  of  your  Father  where  he  mourning 
sits, 

Bereft  of  place  and  fortune  ere  life's  close. 

Before  it  be  too  late  repair  his  loss, 

And  bring  a  happy  end  to  all  this  pain. 

[Shakespeare  listens  with  close  but  im- 
personal attention.] 


SHAKESPEARE 

I  would  these  things  could  move  me;  they  do 
not. 
[At  this  moment  Anne  wakens  from  her 
faint  and  moans.    Richardson  goes  to 
her  and  Shakespeare  turns  to  look."] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  47 

ANNE 

Alas,  Will! 

[Shakespeare  starts,  goes  to  her,  and 
bends  over  her.  Anne  looks  up  at  him 
piteously  and  speaks  with  intensity.'] 
Banished.    Then  life's  stopped  for  me ! 

So  let  me  die. 

[Shakespeare  looks  at  her  with  pro- 
found pity.  Then  he  slowly  moves 
away  from  her  toward  front.  fAs  Anne 
sees  him  go  she  moans  again,  holds 
out  her  hands  toward  him  with  a  des- 
perate movement  and  then  sinks  back 
in  apparent  unconsciousness.  Shake- 
speare stands  in  front  looking  for- 
ward."] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Imprisoned  I  was  free-^ 
Though  caged,  my  steps  were  never  turned 

aside 
From  that  free  Highway  of  the  Soul,  whence  I 


48  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Looked  forth  upon  the  Vision  of  the  World, 
And  up  into  the  Treasury  of  Heaven. 
But  there  are  airless  prisons  of  this  life, 
Where  living  men  and  dead  are  chained  to- 
gether : 
Where   white-winged   birds    are   caged   with 

beasts  that  crawl 
And  burrow  in  the  slime.     Such  do  I  fear; 
Such  are  some  marriages  that  I  have  known. 
The    flower-covered    traps — Gold    and    Re- 
pute— 
They  catch  me  not.     Even  my  father's  grief 
Does  not  compel  the  bondage  of  my  life 
That  dimly  knows  the  trailing  comet's  flight. 
[With  a  sudden  change  looking  toward 
Anne.] 
But    this    poor    woman — beaten,    torn    and 

crushed 
By  violence  of  passion,  by  her  unsought — 
A  helpless  target,  struck  in  th'  core  of  being 
By  the  barbed,  wandering  shaft  of  Love — 
She   calls — she   calls   for  largesse   from  my 
heart ! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  49 

\_A  short  pause. ] 
There  is  a  blindness  in  the  soul  of  man 
When  all  the  Powers  of  Darkness  have  their 

way. 
We  dream — we  wake — and  Life  belies  our 

dream. 
T  was  perfect — and  there's  nothing  here  to 

match  it. 
Yet  ever  onward  must  we  fare  and  live, 
And  act;  blindly  spring  forward  in  the  dark, 
Or  rot  in  self -reproachful,  base  inaction. 
What  is  my  outer  life  worth  now  to  me? 
Whipt,  prisoned,  banished,  all  because 
I  play  with  any  passing  toy  for  joy  of  being, 
And  for  the  lack  of — Stars  and  Goddesses! 

[The  sun  sinks  out  of  sight.] 
That  blindness — It  is  on  me  now — 
Only  one  path  to  tread,  one  thing  to  do. 
A  worthless  life!     But  if  it  save  another's, 
And  make  it  bloom,  it  has  some  right  to  be. 
[He  goes  quickly  to  Anne,  and  kneeling 

on  one  knee  beside  her,  takes  her  hand. 

She  wakens  and  looks  at  him.      He 


50  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

speaks  lightly  and  with  gracious  court- 
esy.'] 
If  that  a  life  so  tattered  and  so  slight, 
So  out  of  all  repute  held  good  by  these, — 
[Indicates  the  group  standing  near — Sir 
Thomas,  Sandells  and  Richardson.'] 
Can  mend  and  strengthen  yours,  why  then — 
'tis  yours. 

ANNE 

What  do  you  mean?    I  do  not  understand? 
[Sandells     and     Richardson    look     de- 
lighted.] 

SIR  TH0MA9 

[Laughing.] 
Wise  Youth!    He  chooses   Marriage   Bells, 

instead 
Of    clanking    chains.     Kisses    for    stinging 

lashes. 

ANNE 

[In  dazed  wonderment.] 
You'll  marry  me? 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  51 

SHAKESPEARE 

It  seems  my  destined  fate : 
And  I  believe  that  one  day  it  shall  be. 

[Yeomen  and  constables  crowd  around 
shaking  his  hands  and  smiling.'] 

SIR  THOMAS 

With  this  most  fortunate  conclusion,  Friends, 
Let   us   each    homeward   go.    The  twilight 

falls. 
To-morrow  in  the  town  we'll  ratify 
With  pen  and  seal  what  here  is  merely  speech. 
[All  go  out  of  wood  at  back  and  left. 
The  yeomen  and  constables  first.    As 
the  younger  yeomen  go,  they  sing.] 

Song. 
Sunlight  dietfi, 
Daylight  flieth, 
Homeward  now! 
Leave  the  furrow,  leave  the  plough, 
Rest  beneath  the  bending  bough. 


52  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

After  toiling, 

Rugged  moiling, 
Follows  rest. 
Homing  swallows  find  the  nest, 
Find  we  each  the  True-Love's  breast. 

By  the  gleaming 

River's  streaming, 
Waits  the  maid. 
Dost  thou  linger  ?   Art  aff rayed  ? 
Hasten!    Clasp  her — undismayed! 

[Then  follow  Sir  Thomas  Lucy  and  the 
farm  bailiff.  Then  Sandells  and  Rich- 
ardson. Shakespeare  has  helped  Anne 
to  rise  to  her  feet.  She  looks  revived 
and  seems  to  question  him  earnestly 
and  he  to  answer.  At  last  she  smiles 
and  turns  to  follow  the  others. 
Shakespeare  stands  motionless  as  if  in 
deepest  thought.] 

ANNE 

[Holding  out  her  hand.] 
Come,  Will! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  53 

[Shakespeare  turns  quickly  and  takes  her 
outstretched  hand  and  they  go  to- 
gether a  few  steps.  Then  Anne  stops 
suddenly. 1 

You  say  that  you  will  marry  me, 
But  will  you  love  me? 

SHAKESPEARE 

I'll  be  patient  with  you. 
Be  patient  then  with  me. 

[They   go   on  a  little  further.    Shake- 
speare turns  and  looks  toward  the  oak 
to  which  he  pointed  when  he  spoke  of 
the  faun  with  whom  he  was  to  fight.] 
Farewell  my  Dryad! 
[They  go.] 

[Yeomen  repeat  second  verse  of  song 
softly,  in  the  distance,  as  the  curtain 
descends.] 

After  toiling, 

Rugged  moiling, 
Follows  rest. 
Homing  swallows  find  the  nest, 
Find  we  each  the  True-Love's  breast. 


54  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

CURTAIN 

Note — First  Act — The  difficulty  of  bringing 
a  live  doe  on  the  stage  in  the  first  act  can  be 
overcome  easily  by  not  having  it  appear  on  the 
stage,  but  having  the  noise  in  the  bushes  heard, 
and  a  portion  of  the  body  of  a  live  or  stuffed 
doe  seen  in  the  distance  in  the  bushes.  Shake- 
speare can  go  into  the  bushes  and  noose  it,  and 
afterwards  can  untie  it  and  release  it  in  the 
same  way. 


ACT  II 

THE  FLIGHT 
1586 


Note — Second  Act — As  the  orchestra  comes 
to  the  end  of  the  interlude  between  Act  I  and 
Act  2,  it  plays  the  refrain  of  an  old  spinning 
song — the  violins  imitating  the  whir  of  the 
wheel.  The  music  ceases  just  before  the  cur- 
tain rises.  While  the  curtain  is  still  down,  the 
thump  and  whir  of  a  spinning  wheel  is  heard, 
and  an  old  woman's  voice  sings  a  song  to  the 
same  refrain  which  the  orchestra  has  been  play- 
ing; the  curtain  comes  up  while  she,  is  singing, 
showing  a  dark  room. 


ACT  II 

THE  FLIGHT  - 
1586 

Scene  i.  [Before  the  curtain  rises  a  wo- 
man's  voice  is  heard  singing  to  the  whir  and 
thump  of  a  spinning  wheel.'} 

Song 
He  kissed  me  once  upon  the  lips 

And  since  that  time  my  heart  has  burned, 
As  the  wild  bee  who  honey  sips 
He  left  me  and  has  ne'er  returned. 

Ah  wellaway! 

I'll  braid  my  love-locks  like  a  crown, 
My  shoes  upon  my  feet  I'll  bind — 
I'll  seek  him  far  as  London-town, 
I'll  seek — but  shall  I  ever  find? 

Ah  wellaway! 
57 


58  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

[As  the  song  ceases  the  curtain  rises. 
The  scene  is  living-room  of  the  house 
of  Shakespeare  in  Stratford-on-Avon. 
The  room  is  almost  dark.  At  the  back 
in  the  centre  is  a  wide  door.  On  either 
side  is  a  large  square  window.  All 
open  directly  on  street,  but  are  closed 
and  darkened  by  heavy  wooden  shut- 
ters, through  whose  chinks  the  early 
'daylight  gleams.  Enter  from  door  at 
right  Anne.  She  looks  older  with  lines 
of  ill-temper  [and  discontent  on  her 
forehead.] 

ANNE 

[Groping  her  way  to  the  nearest  window."] 
How  dark  it  is! 

[She  throws  open  the  wooden  shutters 
and  the  window,  and  the  white  morn- 
ing light,  without  sunlight,  -fills  the 
room.  Through  the  window  is  seen 
the  village  street  and  opposite  houses. 
The  walls  of  the  room  are  hung  with 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  59 

an  arras  of  painted  cloths,  much  faded 
and  tattered.  It  is  simply  furnished 
with  old  wooden  cupboards,  tables, 
chairs  and  settles.  There  are  doors  at 
the  right  and  left.  "At  the  left  there  is 
a  large  fire-place  where  a  few  embers 
smoulder,  "Anne  stands  at  the  win- 
dow."] 

How  damp  and  chill!  One  would  swear  it 
were  March  not  May! 
[She  goes  to  the  other  window  and  Mngs 
open  the  shutters  with  a  powerful 
movement.  All  her  actions  are  strong, 
sudden,  energetic.  She  shivers  and 
goes  to  the  lire.  She  speaks  with 
anger.] 

The  fire  nigh  out  and  no  wood!   The  careless 
oaf! 
[She  goes  to  the  door  at  right.] 

Will! 

[She  goes  to  the  arras  to  straighten  its 
folds  and  as  she  twitches  it  with  sharp 
jerks  the  portion  she  touches  comes  off 


60  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

in  her  hand.       She  flings  it  to  the 

floor. ,] 
Plague  on  these  wretched  rags!  All's  rotting 
here.  There's  not  a  woman  of  family  in 
Stratford  who  has  not  had  new  cloths  since 
two  years  back  and  these  were  old  when  I 
wore  pinafores!    Will! 

[Enter    Shakespeare   from    right.      He 

looks  but  slightly  older  than  before. 

As  he  enters  the  sunlight  floods  the 

village    street    and    shines    into    the 

room."] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Going  to  the  window  and  looking  out.] 
There  is  magic  working  with  the  gray  church 
tower — no  stone  remains;  naught  but  gold 
tracery  against  a  sapphire  sky.     Look,  Anne! 

ANNE 

[Speaking  with  quick  energy.'] 
There  lacks  time  for  looking  out  of  window. 
I  go  to  Shottery  this  hour. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  61 

SHAKESPEARE 

Wherefore? 

ANNE 

That  my  mother  should  longer  nourish  our 
children  makes  my  body  tingle  with  shame. 
She  has  harboured  them  now  two  months.  I 
go  to  Shottery  to  fetch  them  home. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[He  has  listened  with  a  half  frown,  but 
smiles  as  he  speaks. ,] 
'Tis  sweeter  when  they're  here ! 

ANNE 

Sweeter!  Can  we  think  of  sweetness  when 
they  are  to  be  fed  and  clothed?  I  sent  them 
to  my  mother  that  they  might  prosper  by  her 
bounty.  But  she  is  old.  She  wearies  even  of 
their  play !  Last  week  her  pale  face  smote  me 
and  the  neighbors'  eyes  when  they  see  me 
here  alone,  make  my  brain  burn  and  breed  a 
madness  in  me. 


62  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

They  might  have  rested  here. 

ANNE 

And  starved!  You  speak  too  easily.  Five 
to  feed  even  when  we  count  not  your  father 
and  your  mother. 

SHAKESPEARE 

{Lightly.'] 
You  speak  too  largely.  There  has  ever  been 
enough  for  all. 

ANNE 

You  seem  to  think  our  children  should  be 
content  with  food  and  clothing. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  mischief.'] 
There  is  scripture  warrant  for  that ! 

ANNE 

You  seek  to  anger  me. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  63 

SHAKESPEARE 

Ah,  no !    Believe  me,  no ! 

ANNE 

No  man  in  all  Stratford  has  done  so  little 
for  his  children  as  you !  Indeed  you  do  noth- 
ing!   You  are  in  truth  your  father's  son. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[He  has  listened  with  an  air  of  detach- 
ment.'] 
What  do  my  father  and  my  mother  now? 

ANNE 

Your  mother  spins  and  sings  old  songs  in 
the  upper  room.  Out  in  the  garden  in  the  sun 
your  father  sits  idle.  His  eyes  stare,  yet  see 
nothing;  for  I  passed  before  him  now  and 
though  he  looked,  he  saw  me  not. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[He  opens  door  at  right  near  front  "A 
glimpse  of  a  garden  is  seen.  He  looks 
out.] 


64  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

I  see  him  .  .  .  His  hands  lie  on  his 
knees  as  if  they  rested.  Their  burdens  are 
laid  down;  but  the  blurred  eyes  do  not  rest. 
There  is  no  immortal  hope  before,  nor  no 
rich  harvesting  of  joys  behind.  It  is  age's 
listlessness  not  its  repose! 

ANNE 

[Who  has  not  listened.'] 
I  talked  with  Dame  Calverly  yesterday  when 
we  were  cheapening  ribbons  with  the  pedler 
from  Henley.  Her  husband  has  sent  their 
daughter  to  London  to  see  the  sights  and  their 
two  sons  to  Oxford  to  study  at  the  University. 
And  mine  have  naught  before  them! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  amused  pity.] 
How  ingeniously  your  brain  weaves  nets  to 
trap  your  thoughts  and  torture  them!  Their 
ages  mounted  up  upon  each  other  count  not  to 
six  years.  There  surely  is  yet  time  before  such 
matters  press ! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  65 

ANNE 

[Violently.] 
You  are  of  all  living  men  most  maddening! 
You  delay  and  postpone.  You  are  forever 
playing  at  quoits  and  bowls — drinking  and 
laughing  with  the  village  idlers.  What  have 
I  or  your  children  to  hope  for  from  you? 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Kindly,  taking  her  chin  in  his  hand  and 
looking  into  her  eyes.] 

Know  you  not  that  no  one  hour  is  like  an- 
other, no  year  like  that  which  follows  it?  And 
so  with  men  and  women.  I  am  not  now  what 
I  shall  be.  Nor  you — Nor  you!  Last  even- 
ing when  we  walked  we  saw  the  bare,  brown 
meadows  by  the  river.  You  said  that  in  Au- 
gust they  would  be  yellow  with  grain.  [He 
plucks  a  small  branch  from  a  rose  vine  grow- 
ing by  the  window.]  Why  are  there  no  roses 
on  this  vine? 

ANNE 

You  mock  me.  The  time  for  roses  is  not 
yet. 


66  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  sudden  intensity. ] 
You  do  not  ask  the  rose  to  bloom  before  its 
time.  You  do  not  rifle  the  mould  of  its  seeds 
when  it  has  been  newly  planted.  You  do  not 
tear  the  seedlings  up  to  see  their  roots  whether 
they  grow  or  not.  How  do  you  know  what 
grows  in  me?  What  seeds  sown  by  a  hand 
more  skilled  than  our  poor  wits  can  wot  of 
may  be  ready  to  blossom  in  my  soul?  [He 
speaks  gently.]  If  I  may  but  have  time — 
stillness — twilight  and  dark  and  dew  of  the 
sky — sunlight  and  noon:  and  be  untouched 
as  are  the  seeds  you  plant! 

ANNE 

[Blankly  my stifled. ] 
Now,  now,  you  seek  to  puzzle  me — to  lead 
me  aside   from  what  is  urgent.     [Angrily. ] 
Most  urgent  do  I  say. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Half  aside. .] 
She  cannot  understand. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  67 

ANNE 

[She  speaks  with  still  quicker  energy  than 
at  first,  looking  at  the  clock.'] 
Seven  o'clock ;  and  I  must  be  back  by  noon 
for  dinner! 

[She  goes  to  the  cupboard  at  right  and 
opens  it.] 
Here    is    cold   pasty    and   oaten    bread   and 
cakes.    Meagre  fare  for  six!    But  so  the  chil- 
dren  have    enough   I   care   not   for  myself. 

[Goes  toward  street  door  at  back.] 
I  go,  Will,  good-day! 

[Shakespeare  is  at  front;  he  searches  in 
his  pocket  and  takes  out  a  key  unseen 
by  Anne.    He  fingers  it  with  an  air  of 
abstraction.    Anne  goes.    In  the  door- 
way, she  turns.] 
And  Will — at  five  this  morning  the  maid  and 
I  cleaned  the  upper  rooms  and  freshly  made 
all  the  beds.    Fetch  you  the  wood.   Do  not  let 
the  fire  go  out  as  yesterday.    These  May-days 
grow  chill  at  night,  and  the  children  come! 


68  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

You  shall  have  a  royal  fire! 

ANNE 

Good-day. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[In  a  gay,  half -singing  voice. ] 
Heaven  go  with  you! 

[Anne  goes.    He  slips  key  in  his  pocket 
and  goes  out  of  door  at  left.    He  re- 
turns at  once  carrying  a  great  armful 
of  -firewood.    He  piles  it  with  extreme 
care  beside  the  fire-place."} 
If  I  am  perfect  there  can  be  no  reproach!    I 
know   not  why — but — anger  which   turns  a 
man  into  a  beast  is  even  more  loathsome  in  a 
woman.     [Lightly.}     Just  or  unjust  we  look 
to  them  for  gentleness  whether  they  feel  it  or 
not!    Yet  there's  a  kind  of  secret  justice  in 
our  feeling.     For  they  will  ever  tune  us  to 
their  own  key — if  they  but  knew  it!    [A  log 
rolls  from  the  pile.     He  replaces  it.}     Keep 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  69 

your  place,  Trifler!  Know  you  not  this  is 
grave  work  and  our  greatest  part?  Since  we 
belong  to  the  Noble  Order  of  Husbands  we 
must  please  her,  or  the  way  roughens  too 
much  for  further  progress. 

[He  stands  at  a  little  distance  and  looks 
with  satisfaction  at  the  pile  of  wood.'] 
She  will  have  a  royal  fire !    [He  glances  at  the 
clock.']    She  will  be  now  on  the  road  to  Shot- 
tery.    All's  still!    This  hour  is  very  friendly. 
[He  goes  to  the  cloth  hanging  at  right 
and  drawing  it  aside  unlocks  with  the 
key  he  still  holds  a  small  door  in  a  cup- 
board set  in  the  wall  and  from  it  takes 
a  manuscript.] 

ANNE 

[Returning  to  the  door  but  not  looking  in.] 
Will! 

[He  starts  and  replaces  the  manuscript 
and  closes  the  drawer  hastily.] 
Will!   Forget  not  the  fire!    Have  you  laid  the 
fire?   Have  you  piled  the  wood?   Answer,  I 

go- 


70  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Absently  fingering  the  key.] 
I've  piled  it  mountains  high! 

ANNE 

'Tis  well — for  yesterday  we  froze.  Good- 
day!    This  time  I  go. 

[Shakespeare  goes  to  the  door,  looks 
after  her.  Then  he  re-opens  the 
drawer.  He  takes  out  the  manuscript 
and  goes  to  table  at  front  and  sits, 
turning  over  the  pages  of  the  manu- 
script.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Words  are  our  only  immortal  things!  Any 
fool  can  hammer  the  noblest  marble  statue  in 
the  world  to  dust,  but  the  Gods  themselves 
cannot  destroy  a  word,  once  the  same  fool  has 
said  it! 

[The    embers    on    the    hearth    flicker 
brightly  and  go  out.] 
I  ever  believe  that  these  words   of  mine 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  71 

shall  be  spoken,  so  magically — as  it  were  so 
enchantingly  handled, — that  their  own  value 
will  be  doubled.  For  singleness  is  nothing! 
They  have  a  kind  of  life  of  their  own  on  the 
page — but  let  them  be  spoken  by  resolute  lips 
that  marry  each  word  as  they  touch  it  and  all 
the  world  shall  feast  at  the  wedding  banquet! 
Yet  a  playwright  who  passed  through  Strat- 
ford once — an  old  man — with  a  beard — he 
must  have  known!  said  to  me  that  players 
were  such  fools  that  the  bitterest  moment  one 
who  writes  for  them  can  have,  is  to  hear  his 
own  words  stupidly  spoken — in  discord — out 
of  tune  and  sense!  Yet,  there  are  those  who 
command  the  speaking  and  moving  magic.  I 
could  not  myself!  But  that  Godlike  little  boy 
I  met  in  the  wood  four  years  ago; — our 
common  tongue  in  his  mouth  became  a  novel 
and  precious  tune  that  fed  the  heart.  Ah ! — I 
cannot  think  upon  him!  My  senses  so  sicken 
to  see  and  hear  him  again!  .  .  .  Yet 
there  still  must  be  such !  [He  turns  the  pages 
of   the   manuscript.']      All's   been    said   and 


J2  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

played — from  Athens  to  London!  Yet  the 
Heart  of  Things  remains,  for  every  man  to 
find  the  answer  to  his  own. 

\He  writes.  Village  boys  and  girls  pass 
in  the  street.  They  peer  into  the  win- 
dow  an$  seeing  Shakespeare  writing 
point  and  jeer  at  him,  laughing  with 
each  other.  He  does  not  observe  them. 
Bailly  and  Taverner,  the  constables, 
followed  by  two  men,  one  middle- 
aged,  spare  and  scholarly,  the  other  of 
the  same  type,  but  younger,  come  to 
the  door,  look  in,  and  knock  loudly. ,] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Starting  from  his  chair. ,] 
O  for  a  few  hours  of  quietness!    [He  goes 
to  the  door.}     What  is  your  wish?    Whom  do 
you  seek? 

[The  men  enter.'] 

TAVERNER 

We  seek  your  father,  my  young  Feather- 
head. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  73 

SHAKESPEARE 

What  commerce  have  you  with  my  father? 

BAILLY 

That  is  our  concern,  and  not  for  your  ques- 
tioning. 

SHAKESPEARE 

IS  peaking  with  courtesy.] 
Mayhap  then,  I  can  guess :  somewhat  touch- 
ing his  estate  or  moneys  brings  you  here.  My 
father  is  old  in  truth  lacks  force  to  carry  him- 
self— far  less  the  weight  of  his  affairs.  Such  I 
purpose  to  lay  upon  these  shoulders,  which 
have  at  least  the  virtue  of  strength! 


TAVERNER 

Ah,  Ah — I  remember,  I  do  well!  You  had 
ever  a  folly  for  turning  fine  phrases,  even 
while  you  cut  a  calf's  throat  for  your  father, 
when  he  purveyed  meat  for  the  township. 


74  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Springing  toward  him  and  catching  him 
by  the  throat.'] 
Liar! 

[Then  shaking  him  by  the  shoulder  as  if 

he  were  a  puppy,  and  trying  to  laugh.] 

Know   you   not    whole   armies   of   constables 

have  been  swept  from  the  earth  for  less  than 

that? 

TAVERNER 

Help!    Help!     Murder  is  being  done! 
[Three  pikemen   with   long  pikes  rush 
into    the   room   from    the   street   and 
stand    close    to    Taverner.     The    two 
lawyers  have  shrunk  into  the  corner 
and  now  come  forward.] 
Now,  now,  Master  Leatherby  and  Master 
Swales,  do  you  see?    Did  I  not  rehearse  how 
he  flung  me  down  in  the  wood  four  years  ago 
— like  a  brigand,  like  an  assassin,  a  murderer. 
It  is  just  as  I  have  always  said — "  Save  a 
man  from  the  gallows  and  he  will  cut  your 
throat." 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  75 

MASTER   LEATHERBY 

Most  wisely  said,  indeed! 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Still  trying  to  laugh.] 
Is  this  a  comedy,  or  a  mystery  play?    In- 
form   my   ignorance   that   I   may   split  with 
laughter  or  be  duly  awed  as  the  quality  of  the 
piece  may  demand. 

BAILLY 

The  images  suit!  [To  Tavemer.] 
Enough  of  playing  the  Injured!  [To 
Shakespeare. ]  Briefly,  Master  Will,  we  are 
come,  not  without  regret  in  the  hearts  of 
such  of  his  townsmen  as  know,  perforce,  of 
the  matter,  with  a  warrant  for  your  Father's 
arrest  and  due  restraint  by  the  law. 


SHAKESPEARE 

[With    mingled    incredulity    and    anger.] 
A  mad  world! 


?6  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

BAILLY 

One  of  necessity,  you  should  say. 

SHAKESPEARE 

We'll  argue  that. 

\He  quickly  crosses  the  room  and  as  he 
passes  the  door  to  the  garden  he  stum- 
hies  against  a  chair,  which  closes  the 
door.    He  locks  it,  putting  one  hand 
behind    him,   still   facing   the   others, 
who  do  not  see  what  he  has  done,  and 
hides  the  key  in  his  doublet."] 
A  pretty  Game!    As  merry  as  New  Cut,  and 
as  provoking  as  Primero!     And  these  gentle- 
men,  [to  lawyers,]  can  each  take  a  hand — 
and  so  all  will  pass  the  day  pleasantly.     The 
stakes  to  be  our  Golden   Opinions   of  each 
other,  the  prize  a  general  Amnesty — in  which 
all  share.     Including  of  course,  my   father. 
Merely  as  the  host  of  the  gamesters,   who 
make  so  free  with  his  house — such  as  it  is. 
Come,  come,  The  Game!    The  Game! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  yj 

[He  motions  them  to  sit  down  around 

the   table.    He   sits — leaning    on    the 

table,  while  the  others  stand  surprised 

around  it.     To  Master  Leatherby.] 

How,  most  erudite  sir,  can  that  which  has 

not  strength  to  resist  be  restrained?   Answer. 

[To  the  other  Lawyer.] 
Keep  a  precise  record,  sir,  of  the  play,  for 
each  point  counts. 

BAILLY 

[Gravely."] 
The  comedy  of  which  you  spoke,  is  of  your 
own  playing,  now,  Master  Will.  Where  hides 
your  father? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Before  I  answer,  in  all  seriousness  and 
kindness  tell  me,  as  briefly  as  may  be,  what 
legal  warrant  there  is  for  thus  seeking  to 
bring  my  father  into  custody? 

TAVERNER 

Have  I  not  foresight  beyond  the  common? 
Prevising  these  questions  I  brought  Master 


78  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Leatherby  to  convince  Young  Featherhead  of 
our  procedure  according  to  law.  Your  docu- 
ments, Master  Leatherby. 

LEATHERBY 

[Producing  a  legal  paper  and  reading  in  a 
'dry,  monotonous  voice.']  "This  indenture 
Witnesses  that  John  Shakespeare  of  Strat- 
ford on  Avon  in  the  county  of  Warwick  is 
indebted  to  sundry  persons  hereafter  named 
for  the  sum  of  sundry  pounds  of  current 
English  money,  hereafter  set  forth,  and  that 
he  must  doe,  cause,  knowledge  and  suffer  to 
be  done  and  knowledged,  all  and  everie  such 
further  lawful  and  reasonable  acte  and  actes 
thing  and  thinges,  devise  and  devises  assur- 
ances and   conveyances   whatsoever — " 

SHAKESPEARE 

Enough,  enough — I  believe  anything  you 
wish  without  further  assurance! 

LEATHERBY 

[Looking  at  him  over  his  spectacles  and 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  79 

continuing  in  the  same  manner.']  "As  also 
the  saide  John  Shakespeare  and  his  heirs  and 
assignes,  and  everie  of  them,  of  and  from  all 
former  bargaynes,  sales,  leases,  joyntures, 
dowers,  wills,  statutes,  recognizances,  writ- 
inges,  obliagtory  ffynes,  entyles  " — 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Moving  chairs  with  some  noise  and  con- 
fusion.'] You  fatigue  yourself,  sir.  Be 
seated.  Refresh  yourself,  I  entreat — and 
you,  sir — and  you — and  you! — 

[He  opens  a  cupboard  and  brings  out  a 
tankard  of  ale,  mugs  and  cakes.  [He 
pours  out  the  ale  and  offers  it  to  the 
lawyers  and  constables  and  pikemen. 
They  accept  it  half-astonished  and 
after  drinking  a  little  of  it  their  stern 
expressions  relax  and  they  seat  them- 
selves at  the  table,  all  but  the  pikemen 
who  stand  in  the  corner  and  drink  and 
talk  in  whispers.] 


80  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

Now,  Worshipful  Sirs — What  sums  are 
needed  to  free  my  father  from  this  process? 
[To  Leatherby  who  produces  another  long 
document.]  No  longer  weary  yourself, 
Noble  Sir.  [To  Bailly.~]  You  are  no  doubt 
acquainted  with  the  facts?  Spare  Master 
Leatherby.  His  breath  should  be  reserved 
for  matters  worthier  its  spending. 

[Leatherby  looks  pompously   gratified.'] 

BAILLY 

[Taking  a  slip  of  paper  from  his  pocket 
and  reading.]  For  the  Asbies  Estate.  For 
interest  on  the  mortgage  held  by  John  Lam- 
bert, twenty  pounds ;  to  John  Brown  of  Strat- 
ford for  money  loaned,  ten  pounds;  to  the 
Town  of  Stratford  for  debts  for  the  Strat- 
ford Theatre,  forty  pounds.  To  sundry 
other  private  persons  whose  names  I  need 
not  now  set  forth,  forty  pounds.  In  all  one 
hundred  and  ten  pounds.  [After  a  pause  and 
looking  with  sympathy  at  Shakespeare.']  You 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  81 

understand,  Master  Will,  that  his  fellow 
townsmen  hold  your  father  in  respect  and 
high  consideration,  but  they  have  waited 
many  years  and  all  suffer.  I  regret  both  for 
him  and  yourself  that  such  troubles  should 
be. 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  thank  you.  There  is  no  fence  for  ill  for- 
tune. [While  Bailly  has  spoken,  he  has 
carefully  noted  each  item  on  a  slip  of  paper.] 
Were  all  this  paid  anon,  he  would  go  free? 

ALL 

[  With  the  exception  of  Taverner.]    Yes !  Yes ! 

TAVERNER 

[Laughing  jeeringly."]  Anon?  Two 
anons  and  a  by-and-by,  makes  a  while  and  a 
half! 

[The  others  try  to  silence  him.']  Anon! 
It's  now  that's  needful.  Anon,  he  asks? 
Shameful  asking  should  have  shameful  nay! 


82  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

{Without  appearing  to  notice  himj]  If 
full  payment  could  be  assured  for  all  public 
and  private  debt  within  a  reasonable  time, 
would  such  time  be  granted  by  the  law? 
[To  Master  Leatherby.]  Vouchsafe  your 
valued  judgment,  Gracious  Sir. 

LEATHERBY 

{Who  has  been  enjoying  the  ale.']  A  rea- 
sonable time — Yes — Yes— There  should  be 
no  justice  without  mercy. 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  pledge  myself  to  pay  these  sums  within 
two  years  from  this  date  and  in  the  interval 
to  pay  such  interest  as  may  be  deemed  suffi- 
cient both  by  the  town  and  those  private  per- 
sons who  have  been  at  loss. 

TAVERNER 

He  promises  like  a  Lover  to  his  Maid! 
What  security  can  he  give?     I  ask  that  of 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  83 

you  all?  Seven  hands  in  the  dish  here. 
Two  in  the  purse  and  that  an  empty  one,  and 
an  Idler  at  the  fore.  Ha,  ha!  They  that 
have  not  worked  in  heat  must  linger  in  frost ! 
Ha,  ha! 

[Shakespeare  appears  as  if  he  had  not 
heard  Taverner.] 

BAILLY 

[Losing  his  temper.']  Silence — Flea! 
[To  Shakespeare."]  We  know  your  love  of 
uprightness  of  dealing;  that  you  are  gentle 
and  honest,  of  an  open,  free  and  frank  dis- 
position; but  that  some  security  should  be  as- 
sured is  a  necessity  that  you  must  under- 
stand. [To  Leatherby.]  Kindly  explain 
this  point  to  Master  Will,  sir. 

[Leatherby  produces  from  his  bag  an- 
other document.  Shakespeare  hastily 
fills  his  mug  with  ale.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  neglect  your  comfort.  No  proof  is  nec- 
essary.    Your  honored  word  suffices, 


84  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

[Leatherby  bows  affably  and  drinks. 
Shakespeare  sits  motionless  with  an 
expression  of  anxious  thought.  TAll 
wait  silently.'] 

BAILLY 

If  due  security  could  be  given  I  doubt  not 
that  your  proposal  would  be  acceptable  to  the 
town  and  the  private  persons  (touching  mem- 
orandum) herein  set  forth. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Showing  his  despair.]  Security?  Alas! 
I  have  none. 

LEATHERBY 

[Having  finished  all  the  ale  on  the  table.] 
Then  the  law  must  proceed.  What  we  came 
for  should  be  done.  [He  stands  and  the  con- 
stables also  rise.]     Take  us  to  your  father. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Passionately  and  springing  from  his 
chair  and  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  garden  door.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  85 

You  may  not  see  him! 

[The   constables,   lawyers,   and  pikemen 
rush  tozvard  him.} 

LEATHERBY 

"May  not"  is  said  not  to  the  law. 

BAILLY 

He  hides  in  the  garden !    Out  of  our  path ! 
You  presume  on  our  patience. 

[He     attempts     to     push    Shakespeare 
aside. 1 

SHAKESPEARE 

S'death!     I'll  presume  yet  farther  before 
you  pass  this  door. 

[They  struggle.] 
The  Voice  of  Shakespeare's  Father  (without) 
[He  knocks  at  the  door  to  the  garden.] 
Will!      Will!      What    means    this    turmoil? 
Who  is  within?    Open! — [A  silence.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Peace,   Father!     A  bout  of  wrestling  for 


86  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

pleasantry  with  some  of  the  neighbors.  'Tis 
over.  Go  you  to  the  pleached  alley  at  the 
garden  end.     They  go! 

THE    VOICE 

Tis  well — I  go  to  the  pleached  alley.  But 
more  stillness  were  meeter  for  the  honor  of 
my  house. 

[All  stand  silent  and  surprised.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  passion.]  Is  it  justice  or  reason  to 
put  a  man  in  gaol  who  is  too  feeble  to  stir 
abroad?  When  the  heart  acheth  the  whole 
body  is  aworse  and  my  father  is  weighted  by 
lassitude.  A  helplessness  that  is  inert  be- 
cause there  is  beneath  it  no  stir  of  hope.  I 
know  from  words  and  signs  of  whose  mean- 
ing I  have  discernment  that  he  has  come  not 
into  church  for  a  year  for  fear  of  process  for 
debt.  All's  at  an  end  for  him.  Youth,  man- 
hood and  the  mighty  tide  of  ambition  that 
sweeps  the  middle  years.     Yet  pride  still  lives 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  87 

in  him.  Like  all  wounded  and  feeble  things 
the  sorer  to  the  touch  because  it  has  been  hurt 
already.  Wound  it  not  still  more.  Strike  it  not 
now  so  that  it  die  in  agony.  In  his  prosperity 
did  he  not  prosper  all?  Was  it  not  he  who 
fed  the  poor  and  starving  when  the  plague 
ravaged  the  town?  Was  it  not  he  who  built 
a  theatre  for  Stratford  that  we  might  have 
some  surprise  of  laughter,  some  strangeness 
of  fancy,  some  grace  shaped  with  Art  to  turn 
the  stones  of  our  daily  lives  to  bread  if  but 
for  an  hour's  space?  For  which  of  these 
things  do  you  prison  him?  Who  has  ever 
had  thought  to  reward  him  for  these  gifts? 
Should  not  there  be  some  generous  handling 
of  him  who  was  generous  to  all? 

[He  pauses.  The  men  are  visibly  a/- 
fected.] 
Suppose  an  if  you  do  this  thing— Suppose 
you  drag  this  sick  and  bleeding  soul  to  gaol 
what  gain  have  you  ?  He  shall  have  no  more 
gold  to  pay  you  then  than  now,  and  you  have 
stained  the  records  of  the  town  with  dark  in- 


88  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

gratitude  that   no   time   to   come   can   wash 
white.     [He  pauses  again.'] 

BAILLY 

These  be  true  words. 

[The  others  assent  silently,  all  but  Tav- 
erner.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

And  I  will  pay  all.  Set  this  security 
aside.  Give  me  but  two  years'  grace  and  if 
Fate  send  not  some  hooded  calamity  across 
my  path  to  strike  me  before  I  can  see  its  face, 
whether  it  portend  evil  or  good,  nothing  in 
life  shall  stay  my  triumph. 

[He  covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and 
then  removes  it  looking  fixedly  for- 
ward and  slightly  upward.] 

BAILLY 

[With  emotion.']  Friends,  I  am  for  giv- 
ing him  his  way. 

LEATHERBY 

[Throwing  off  his  dry  manner.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  89 

Am  I  a  simpleton  that  I  so  trust  this  youth, 
and  without  reason? 


TAVERNER 

[Despairingly.]  The  twist  of  his  tongue 
turns  their  stiff  brains  on  their  very  hinges 
and  oils  them  so  they  do  not  even  creak! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  impetuous  sweetness.]  Give  me 
your  trusts,  Gentles  all.  Let  me  wrap  them 
in  my  heart — fulfill  them  with  its  impulse  and 
its  strength  and  when  the  fruit  of  my  travail 
lies  in  your  hands  you  will  be  justified.  Do 
you  consent? 

LEATHERBY 

[Slowly  and  hesitatingly.]  There  is  no 
legal  warrant  for  such  exception  to  the  law. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Do  you  refuse? 

LEATHERBY 

We  cannot. 


90  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

Then  let  all  lie  in  the  secret  kindness  of 
your  hearts  and  let  me  prove  my  words. 

BAILLY 

I  will  lay  all  before  the  town  council  and 
in  all  truth  I  do  believe  I  will  prevail. 

SHAKESPEARE 

May  the  goodness  that  is  Divine  refresh 
your  hearts  for  this  sweet  faith.  Farewell 
good   friends. 

[They  go.  He  shows  them  to  the  door 
and  then  walks  swiftly  to  the  front.] 
I  should  be  overwhelmed  at  what  the  years — 
their  movement  and  their  mystery — wrap 
around  my  life,  but  that  I  have  within  assur- 
ance of  strength  to  match  their  force,  magic 
for  their  mystery,  freedom  beyond  bonds. 
These  bonds  I  seek  not  to  break.  I  scarce 
know  how  they  came.  Call  it  human  pity — 
the  higher  side  of  that  same  weakness  that 
wronged  another  life — or,  on  the  other  hand, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  91 

clutching  selfishness  that  assaulted  a  man's 
defenseless  side.  Man  made  for  woman- 
woman  made  for  man.  The  mystery  of  op- 
posites — distant  and  strange,  yet  dragging 
into  gripping  closeness  diverse  lives.  Call  it 
fate,  blindness,  sex,  anything  but  Love.  But 
when  we  stood  before  the  altar  and  the  Priest 
asked  pledges,  did  I  not  shout  them?  Let  be 
then.  It  is  as  it  should  be.  It  cannot  be 
otherwise.  See — there  am  I  in  the  steel- 
bound  cage  and  for  my  sin  I  acquiesce.  And 
then- — a  brush  of  heavenly  wings,  an  opening 
of  the  heart,  all  unforeseen — and  we  are  as 
Gods,  fathering  unfledged  souls,  that  we  who 
are  aware,  entertain  as  angels,  kneeling  at 
their  feet,  bending  our  ears  to  catch  some 
lisping  of  the  wisdom  and  the  glory  they  have 
newly  left.  O  I  should  moan  and  shrink 
when  thought  of  these  sweet  young  lives  that 
Heaven  has  given  me  holds  the  courts  of  my 
brain,  were  it  not  that  in  even  balance  with 
their  crushing  weight  is  my  will  to  draw 
forth  this  life's  richest  juices  for  them  as  I 


92  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

tread  its  press.  To  pour  out  for  them  wine, 
distilled  from  every  tree  of  Knowledge  and 
Life,  whose  fruit  I  pluck  and  eat  because  all 
is  mine,  as  I  fare  on  the  world's  highway. 
My  father  and  my  mother  .  .  .  Let  me 
compass  peace  not  in  their  ken  for  them. 
And  for  my  wife — my  wife — my  wife — Is 
she  then  indeed  my  wife?  What  the  hawk 
does  not  hold  beneath  her  iron  claw  may  the 
Eagle  ranging  far  bring  to  her  bleak  holding 
in  the  rock?  My  vision  is  at  fault.  There 
is  an  emptiness  at  my  heart.  I  may  not  see 
farther.  Nor  would  I.  There  is  balm  and 
calming  in  the  veil  of  mist  that  floats  at  dawn 
and  lifts  at  last  to  show  a  novel  splendour. 
[He  uncovers  his  manuscript  and  looks 

at  it.] 
I  thought  it  would  be  long  to  finish  this  but 
see  how  it  completes  itself !    There  lacks  here 
but  little.     Speed,  speed!    And  my  apple  of 
Hesperides  may  ripen  by  noon! 

[He  writes  with  an  expression  of  joyous 

content  on  his  face.     John  Richard- 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  93 

son  and  Foulke  Sandells  pass  the  win- 
dow  at  right  and  after  looking  in,  rap 
gently  at  the  door  which  is  slightly 
ajar,  Shakespeare  continues  absorbed 
in  his  writing.  They  push  open  the 
door  and  enter  stealthily.  They  look 
at  each  other  and  then  sit  in  two  chairs 
at  left  and  watch  Shakespeare  silently 
for  a  moment,  shaking  their  heads. 
They  look  older  and  are  dressed  in 
black  clothes  as  if  for  a  visit  of  cere- 
mony. They  cough  and  shift  their 
chairs  somewhat  noisily.  Shakespeare 
looks  up  suddenly  and  sees  them.'] 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Gaily.]  Richardson  and  Sandells,  my 
ancient  Ravens!  What  does  this  visit  omen? 
Why  this  sombre  plumage  of  a  morning?  Is 
it  a  tithe  meeting?  Or  a  funeral?  Is  Dame 
Fernlow's  cat  dead?  Or  Dame  Hathaway's 
black  cow?    Unfold! 


94  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

RICHARDSON 

[With  injured  dignity. ] 
We   bear  a  message  to   you    from   Dame 
Hathaway. 

SANDELLS 

With  vast  unwillingness. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  a  quick  frown  but  speaking  with 
good  humor. ]  A  weighty  message — Since 
two  must  carry  it.  What's  wrong  with  my 
wife's  mother? 

RICHARDSON 

There's  nothing  wrong  with  her.  The 
trouble  is  with  you,  young  Featherhead. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Turns  and  faces  the  two  men  looking 

at  them  piercingly.     They  both  -flinch 

and  look  uneasy.] 

What  is  the  nature  of  my  trouble?    Give  it 

a  name,  I  beg.     I've  read  of  a  man  who  look- 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  95 

ing  up  to  the  sky  and  seeing  a  comet  feared 
it,  until  he  heard  that  it  had  a  name,  when  he 
concluded  it  must  be  harmless  and  went  into 
his  house  again,  content! 

RICHARDSON 

You  must  give  us,  Sandells  and  me,  credit 
for  judgment — wisdom — 

SANDELLS 

Tact. 

SHAKESPEARE 

O  enormous! 

RICHARDSON 

[Slowly  and  impressively.]  Only  duty— 
the  sacred  obligation  of  old  friendship  brings 
us  here. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Looking  at  the  clock  and  speaking  in  the 
same  manner. ] 
Only  Duty— the  sacred  obligation  of  old  prom- 
ises made  to  all  the  Powers  that  be,  force  me 


96  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

to  tell  you  that  I,  (speaks  very  rapidly)  have 
only  two  minutes  to  listen  to  you. 

[He  stands  and  moves  a  step  or  two 
toward  the  two  men.] 

SANDELLS 

[With  uneasiness. ]  Tell  him,  Richard- 
son. I'll  not  face  Dame  Hathaway  with  her 
words  unsaid. 

RICHARDSON 

Dame  Hathaway  is  dissatisfied  with  your 
way  of  life.  [Shakespeare  looks  astonished.] 
It  is  four  years  since  you  married  her  daugh- 
ter and  during  that  time  you  have  idled, 
lounged,  drunk  sack  with  your  rude  wildrakes 
and  Anne  has  kept  the  house  and  her  mother 
has  paid  the  bills.     You  have  done  no  work — 

SHAKESPEARE 

O  pardon  me! 

RICHARDSON 

Wherefore  ? 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  97 


SHAKESPEARE 

I  have  worked. 

RICHARDSON 

And  in  what  fashion? 


SHAKESPEARE 

I  have — written. 


RICHARDSON     AND     SANDELLS 

[Laughing  sneeringly.]  Pray  what  have 
you  written? 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Who  has  been  good-humored  and  careless 
until   this   moment   becomes  suddenly 
grave  and  reserved.} 
Words. 

RICHARDSON 

[Again  laughing  jeeringly.]  Words!— 
words!  And  that  he  calls  work!  Well 
Dame  Hathaway  says  there's  to  be  no  more 


98  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

of  these  "  words."  You  must  go  to  work 
with  your  hands,  like  any  other  honest  man, 
or  Anne's  Mother's  money  shall  keep  you  no 
more — and — ■ 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Going  to  the  two  men  with  a  swift,  irre- 
sistible movement,  takes  them  by  the 
shoulders,    and    quickly,    but    gently, 
pushes  them  to  the  door  and  out  into 
the  street,  speaking  as  he  does  so,  with 
breaks  and  pauses  as  he  pushes  them.1 
When  the  Phoenix  was  consumed — even  to 
ashes — in  his  own  nest — he  flew  away — up, 
up,  up — into  the  burning  blue  of  the  sky,  with 
new    feathers.     Such     glorious     ones!     Did 
you  ever  read  the    story?    No?    Go  home 
then  and  read  it! 

[The  two  men  stumble  over  the  thresh- 
old  and  out  into  the  street  and  disap- 
pear hastily,  looking  timidly  over  their 
shoulders  as  if  to  see  whether  Shake- 
speare follows  or  not.      Shakespeare 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  99 

looks  after  them,  laughing  uncontrol- 
lably. He  waves  his  hand  to  them 
with  gaiety  and  calls.] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Come   again   anon, — to-morrow — to   dine! 

We  shall  have  venison  for  you  and  tripe  and 

onions  and  sack! 

[He  writes  again  as  before.  Music  of 
violins,  flutes,  haut-boys  and  horns  is 
heard  down  the  village  street  and  the 
shouting  of  boys  and  girls.  People 
come  to  the  doors  and  windows  of  the 
houses  opposite  and  some  come  out  on 
the  street.] 

a   boy's  voice 
Hallo!    Hallo!     [A     boy    enters    'street 
skipping     and     running."]       Way!     Room! 
Make    way!    The    Players!    The    London 
Players  from  Kenilworth! 

[Boys  and  girls  follow  him,  laughing, 
skipping    and    clapping    their    hands; 


ioo  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

then  a  group  of  villagers,  then  musi- 
cians playing,  followed  by  a  group  of 
players.  They  are  all  men  and  boys 
and  look  shabby,  travel-stained  and 
tired.  At  Shakespeare's  door,  which 
stands  open,  they  stop  and  the  leader, 
a  middle-aged  man,  knocks.  Shake- 
speare has  heard  nothing  and  still 
writes.  The  knock  is  repeated  more 
loudly. 1 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Starting.]     O — who  knocks? 

FIRST    PLAYER 

Gentle,  sir,  is  this  mayhap  an  inn,  where 
we  may  refresh  ourselves?  We  are  most 
weary — having  walked  this  morning  from 
Kenilworth  where  we  played  yesterday  for 
my  lords  Leicester  and  Essex. 

[The  other  players  are  grouped  about 
the  door  behind  the  first  player.  The 
musicians  and  villagers  stand  behind 
them  in  the  street.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  101 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Going  joyously  to  the  door.]  Enter 
friends!  All!  For  you  this  is  an  Inn — and 
for  refreshment! — Why,  what  there  is,  is 
yours ! 

PETER    DUMPSER 

[A  Village  Boy] 
This  is  no  Inn.     Tis  Will  Shakespeare's 
own  house! 

[The  players  hesitate."] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[To  boy.]  That's  enough  from  you,  sir. 
Silence  or  you  shall  have  no  cakes! — Too 
truthful  Peter  Dumpser!  [To  Players.]  I 
said  it  was  an  Inn  for  you.  I  entreat  you— 
Brothers — Pass  not  my  door  without  enter- 
ing! 

[The  players  and  musicians  yield  and 
enter.  The  villagers  hang  back  and, 
after  shaking  their  heads  and  demur- 
ring,  all  go    with   the   exception   of 


ios  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Peter  Dumpser  and  one  villager  who 
lingers  in  the  street. ,] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Rest — rest.     Here  are  seats  for  all. 

[He  pulls  about  the  chairs  and  settles. 
All  sit   in   background.    Shakespeare 
opens  doors  of  cupboards."] 
All's   cold,   alas! — But  here's  game-pie   and 
oaten  bread  and  sack  and  cheese. 

[He  empties  the  cupboards  and  puts 
dishes  and  beer  mugs  and  jugs  on  the 
table  and  begins  to  serve  the  Players. 
'All  take  food  and  eat  and  drink. 
Shakespeare  gives  a  double  portion  to 
Peter  Dumpser.'] 

FIRST     PLAYER 

But,  sir,  there  is  no  seat  for  you — and  all 
the  pie  is  gone! 

SHAKESPEARE 

When  you  eat  I  also  am  fed!     [He  sits  on 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE         103 

the  edge  of  the  table.]     What  did  you  play 
yesterday  for  my  Lord  of  Leicester? 


FIRST    PLAYER 

A  Fairy  Masque. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With    eager    interest.']     And    by    whom 
written  ? 

FIRST     PLAYER 

By  one  Campion.    You  know  his  plays? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Alas !     I  am  till  now  ignorant  of  his  name. 

FIRST     PLAYER 

Tis  a  pleasing  pastoral  and  suits  in  this 
May  time  in  the  open  air,  with  songs  com- 
posed by  one  of  our  company  here. 
[Points  to  a  young  musician.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Goes  to   him  and  shakes  his  hand.]     I 


104  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

must  hear  these  songs!  Your  eyes  are 
bright  with  Love-light.  A  nightingale,  I'll 
swear  to  it ! 

MUSICIAN 

I  thank  you.  A  Hedge  Robin,  say  rather! 
[Enter,  riding  by  the  village  street, 
Heminge  and  Greene.  They  dis- 
mount before  Shakespeare's  house. 
A  villager  who  has  lingered  in  the 
street  holds  the  bridles  of  their  horses, 
while  they  enter  the  door  and  then 
leads  their  horses  away.  They  are 
richly  dressed  in  courtier's  costumes 
of  brilliant  satin."] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Heminge  and  Greene!  Whether  the  sub- 
stance of  a  dream  or  flesh  and  blood,  welcome 
to  Stratford  again. 

HEMINGE 

We  pass  never  your  Father's  door,  Will, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  105 

without  a  sight  of  you,  but  we  thought  not  to 
find  all  our  company  of  the  same  mind! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Embracing  him.']  Ah,  Heminge.  Your 
voice!  No  spirit  speaks  so  soundly.  [He 
embraces  Greene.]  Welcome,  old  friend. 
[Some  of  the  other  Players  stand  and  one 
brings  some  chairs  near  front.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[To  Players.]  My  thanks  for  this  cour- 
tesy. You  were  the  gracious  forerunners  of 
old  sweetness  renewed.  These  are  my  fel- 
low-townsmen. [Drawing  close  to  Heminge 
and  Greene.]  Amazing  transformation! 
You  left  Stratford  with  empty  pockets, 
meanly  clad,  and  you  come  back  ruffling  it  in 
glaring  satin  suits,  on  horses  like  Lords,  and 
I'll  swear,  with  full  purses! 

GREENE 

[Laughing.]     There   be  many   who   have 


io6  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

gone  to  London  who  can  tell  the  same  pretty 
tale. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Touching  his  ruff  and  costume.']  On  my 
soul,  a  ruff  of  lace  like  a  Lady's.  A  chain 
and  jewel  of  amethyst  shaped  heart-wise 
graven  with  tender  emblems;  a  heart  with  a 
winged  cupid  shooting;  his  arrow  guided  by 
a  Venus  kneeling;  a  flower-broidered  doub- 
let; Love-Lies-Bleeding  with  Forget-Me- 
Nots!  [To  Heminge.]  And  you — his 
match  in  all  these  dazzlements!  How  comes 
this? 

HEMINGE 

Fortune's  caprice  turns  even  the  way  of  a 
poor  playwright!     Blind  like  Love! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  eager  interest.']  Is  it  even  so? 
What  plays  please  in  London  now? 

GREENE 

O,  anything  of  the  Peep-show  order  from 
a  Bear-garden  to  a  Dog-fight! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE      ,    107 

SHAKESPEARE 

{With  disappointment]  No  higher  soar- 
ing? 

HEMINGE 

Fairy-Masques  and  spectacles,  (so  there  are 
satyrs  who  scramble  to  make  the  ground- 
lings laugh,  with  songs  and  music  cunningly 
interspersed)  are  borne  with  some  show  of 
patience.  We  played  in  one  such  yesterday 
at  my  Lord  Leicester's  at  Kenilworth.  We 
play  it  again  in  London  when  June  opens. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Ah!    If  I  might  but  see  you  then! 

HEMINGE 

You  affect  the  stage? 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  lack  at  this  time  opportunity  to  affect 
anything — except  as  a  kind  of  curtain-raiser, 
beer  and  skittles.  But — I  have  my  own  mo- 
ments ! 


io8  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

HEMINGE 

And  that  way  lies  salvation! 

GREENE 

You  would  mayhap  like  to  join  our  fra- 
ternity ? 

SHAKESPEARE 

My  imagination  is  ensnared  by  your  be- 
witching show  of  this  our  puzzling  world; 
for  through  the  noble  or  jesting  words  you 
so  pointedly  speak  and  through  the  mum- 
mery of  your  action  I  read  a  kind  of  free 
translation  of  the  wonderful  pageantry  of 
Life  that  illuminates  it — for  me!   For  me. 

GREENE 

You  have  played  yourself? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Most  indifferently  in  our  Village  shows. 

HEMINGE 

O,  we  all  had  a  beginning!  Others  must 
judge  of  your  talent. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  109 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  am  my  own  kindest  critic. 

HEMINGE 

Then  from  your  own  showing  they  must 
rate  you  too  low  for  even  your  modesty. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Impossible!  For  I  rank  myself,  and  were 
I  easily  capsized  I  should  be  completely  so  by 
my  own  pleasure  in  what  I  do — when  I  do  it 
well. 

HEMINGE 

Then  you  do  somewhat  and  well — and 
what  may  it  be? 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  am  of  your  craft. 

GREENE 

You  too!  In  the  circles  in  which  I  re- 
volve   no   one    does    anything   else.     But   is 


no  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

there  then  no  more  novel  impulse  from  this 
fresh  plenitude  of  solitary  nature  that  sur- 
rounds you  than  to  take  to  the  too-trodden 
highway  of  the  Playwright?  No  secret  by- 
path that  you  alone  frequent  where  you  may 
have  raptures  of  discovery  for  yourself 
alone  ? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Unshared  pleasure  grows  stale. 

HEMINGE 

But  not  so  stale  as  fruit  thrown  on  the 
market  and  neither  bought  nor  eaten!  I 
have  plays  on  my  shelf  that  in  imagination  I 
saw  the  public  swallowing  like  manna  from 
Heaven,  when,  in  fact,  they  spewed  them 
forth  and  there  remained  for  me  but  to 
gather  up  the  fragments! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Even  if  it  bloom  not  for  me,  let  me  live 
always  in  the  perfume  of  the  Rose!  I  love 
the  theatre!    Its  air  would  be  sweet  to  me 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  in 

even  if  the  flowers  in  its  gardens  were  not 
of  my  planting. 

HEMINGE 

Show  us  of  your  imaginings — 


GREENE 

We  entreat  you. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Do  you  wish  me  to  fright  away  the  shy 
Angel  of  my  Thought  before  I  have  mas- 
tered his  whisperings?  I  thought  not  to  un- 
lock the  gate  to  my  garden  of  unfading 
flowers  until  they  bloomed  as  sturdily  on 
their  stems  as  they  do  in  my  own  mind — but 
when  Opportunity  knocks  so  graciously  only 
Folly  would  keep  it  closed. 

[He  uncovers  the  Mss.  and  hands  it  to 

Heniinge.] 

A  Fairy  Masque  such  as  you  have  played 

even  now.    A  dream  I  dreamed  in  the 

Forest  here  on  a  night  in  Midsummer. 


ii2  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

\_Heminge  turns  the  pages  and  reads 
while  Greene  looks  over  his  shoul- 
der.] 

HEMINGE 

[Indicating  a  line.]  Excellent  fantasy! 
[They  read  on.] 

GREENE 

Brave  notions! 

*  HEMINGE 

A  prospering  wit! 

GREENE 

A  Fairy  Masque  indeed — but  not  such  as 
we  have  been  playing!  Ours  was  fustian, 
this  cloth  of  gold,  if  all  the  stuff  be  of  this 
weaving. 

HEMINGE 

[Who  has  continued  to  read  and  turn  the 
pages.] 
Strange    witchery!      These    fairies    live — 
These  men  and  women  are  the  shadows ! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  113 

SHAKESPEARE 

In  the  Fairy  World  'tis  so. 

GREENE 

Never  so  before,  yet  true! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Should  not  art,  like  truth,  be  inevitable? 
A  great  painter  draws  an  arm.  Never  so 
drawn  before.  Yet  all  the  world  cries  out — 
"An  arm  should  be  like  that!  It  could  not 
be  otherwise.,, 

HEMINGE 

The  truth  from  the  mouth  of  a  babe! 

GREENE 

[To  Heminge.]     Burbage  should  see  this. 

HEMINGE 

[Turning  the  pages  of  the  Mss.  to  the 
end.~\ 
This  is  not  all  ?  It  will  be  long  to  complete  it  ? 


ii4  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

A  few  hours  of  quietness!  The  end— and 
one  might  say  a  glorification  of  the  whole! 
Or — I  might  lay  this  phantasy  aside.  I  have 
other  plays  that  might  please  more. 

HEMINGE 

Come  with  me  to  London — show  this  play 
to  Burbage,  our  manager.  There  is  hunger, 
know  you,  in  the  public  stomach — though  my 
dishes  lack  seasoning  to  their  zest!  Come 
with  us! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  sudden  reserve.']  I  know  not  if  that 
may  be. 

HEMINGE 

A  prudent  youth.  A  vision  of  failure  out- 
weighs the  chances  of  glory! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Not  so.  [To  Greene."]  My  desires  match 
your  words  and  my  impulses  rush  to  marry 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  115 

them.  My  hopes  blossom  in  the  sun  of  your 
gracious  encouraging.  How  may  I  requite 
it? 

[Enter   Peter   Dumpser    with   ale   and 
cakes.'] 

PETER    DUMPSER 

[To  Shakespeare."]  There's  ale  for  you, 
Will  Shakespeare,  for  all  have  drunk  save 
you. 

SHAKESPEARE 

You  come  at  a  fortunate  moment,  truthful 
Peter,  a  fresh  spring  where  our  own  well  runs 
dry! 

[He  reMs  the  glasses  of  the  players.] 


HEMINGE 

A  glass  to  your  London  journey  and  good 
luck  at  its  end ! 

ALL 

The  London  journey! 


n6  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

[All  drink  laughing  and  applauding  and 
clinking  their  glasses.  The  door  to  the 
street  at  back  in  the  centre  is  suddenly 
pushed  open  and  Anne  enters.  Her 
face  is  pale  and  rigid  with  excitement 
and  anger.  She  passes  swiftly  be- 
tween the  seated  players  on  either  side 
of  the  door,  and  goes  to  front.] 

ANNE 

An  end  to  this.  This  is  my  home  and  this 
my  husband.  My  home  not  for  defilement  by 
pot  house  carousals.  My  husband  not  the 
comrade  of  vagabonds.     Out — Out  all! 

[The  players  all  rise  and  stand  in  con- 
fused astonishment.  Heminge  and 
Greene  look  at  Anne  with  cold  curios- 
ity.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Springing  to  Anne,  and  laying  his  hand 
on  her  arm.]  Mad — and  more  blind  than 
mad!    Unsay  your  words.     O  Anne,  there's 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  117 

more  at  stake  than  your  short  vision  sees! 
[To  players.']  Gentlemen — my  friends — a 
wild  mistake!  Some  lack  of  understanding 
in  our  village-folk,  pardonable  to  your  larger 
experience,  is  untowardly  shared  by  my — most 
honoured  wife.  [To  players,  but  more  espe- 
cially to  Heminge  and  Greene.]  She  knows 
not  who  you  are!  [To  Anne,  with  pleading 
intensity.]  Speak  again,  with  gentleness. 
Salve  the  hurt  your  wild  words  cause  these 
generous,  kindly  folk.  [To  players.]  All's 
understood  my  friends.  Go  not!  Be  seated, 
that  our  pretty  comedy  of  the  arts  may  go 
on! 

[The  players  who  have  begun  to  move 

toward  the  door  yield  to  his  urgency 

and  again  sit.] 

ANNE 

[With  increased  anger.]  An  impudence,— 
a  cowardice  I  scarce  believe  even  though  my 
eyes  see  it?  Silly  souls!  They  know  they 
trespass  in  an  honoured  house,  yet  they  sit 


n8  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

still  and  say  nothing!  [To  Shakespeare.']  Is 
it  not  enough  that  we  are  ruined  by  your 
father's  theatre-building  madness  here  in 
Stratford,  that  you  let  your  own  home  be 
fouled  with  this  draggled  flock  of  the  high 
road?  Are  you  sheep-blooded  also  that  you 
leave  me  to  play  the  watch-dog  and  drive 
them  out  upon  it  again  ? 

[The  players  rise  again,  this  time  indig- 
nantly, and  look  anxiously  at  Shake- 
speare  as  if  expecting  him  to  resent 
'Anne's  words.  He  moves  to  a  chair 
near  the  table  in  the  foreground  and 
sits  looking  forward  with  an  air  of 
complete  detachment.  The  players 
and  musicians  confer  an  instant  si- 
lently and  go  out  of  the  door.  As  they 
cross  the  threshold  Shakespeare  springs 
from  his  seat  and  goes  to  them  smiling 
radiantly.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Grasping  the  hands  of  Heminge  and 
Greene  and  some  of  the  others.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  119 

A  brief  farewell!  Life  leads  us  through 
some  lying  hours,  friends,  yet  truth  is  lusty! 
The  canker-worm  gnaws,  but  the  bud  still 
burns  into  the  rose.    Fruition  redeems! 

[Exeunt  players  and  Peter  Dumpser, 
whose  head  Shakespeare*  caresses  as 
he  passes  him.'] 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Going  to  Anne  and  speaking  kindly.] 
Be  my  friend,  Anne,  as  I  am  yours.     There 
is  no  Beauty  else. 

ANNE 

[Turning  angrily  from  him,  and  Hinging 
open  the  cupboard  door.] 
My  children's  food  taken  from  their 
mouths  and  given  to  dogs!  [She  turns  to  the 
lire-place  and  sees  the  grey  ashes.]  No  fire— 
a  chilled  house.  [She  throws  some  kindlings 
and  logs  on  the  ashes  and  the  fire  blazes.  She 
turns  fiercely  to  Shakespeare.]  His  children's 
lives  forgotten  in  his  wanton  pleasure ! 


i2o  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Going  to  her  again  and  attempting  to 
take  her  hand.] 
Poor  stormy  Petrel !  Is  it  quite  lost  the  old 
magic  that  once  stilled  the  storms  which  drive 
your  soul  so  wildly  ?  Listen,  I  will  tell  you  all 
my  secret.  I  feared  to  start  fair  hopes  in  your 
breast  until  there  were  some  outward  showing 
that  your  reason  would  entertain.  [He  takes 
his  play  from  the  table. ,] 

See, — Here  is  opportunity,  freedom,  prosper- 
ity for  you  and  for  our  beloved.  Know  you 
not  that  the  good  will  of  the  gentle,  generous 
folk  you  have  so  unworthily  driven  forth  is 
our  safest  investiture  for  our  happy  fortune? 
[He  gives  the  play  to  Anne.  She  looks 
at  it  and  recoils.] 

ANNE 

A  play  ?  On  this,  then,  you  have  spent  your 
strength  and  the  precious  days  and  months 
that  might  have  been  given  to  honest  work? 
Is  it  not  enough  that  the  hard  grip  of  poverty 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  121 

holds  us,  for  that  your  father  wasted  his  sub- 
stance for  a  theatre,  that  you  too  should  play 
with  the  dangerous  flame?  To  the  fire  let  all 
theatre-scribblings  go  and  burn  there  end- 
lessly and  no  more  torment  us ! 

[She  flings  the  manuscript  into  the  fire 
where  it  blazes  for  an  instant. ] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Snatching  the  manuscript  from  the  fire.] 
You  know  not  what  you  do.  You  are  burn- 
ing up  my  life! 

[He  stands   at   a  distance  from  Anne 
holding  the  charred  manuscript,  trem- 
bling and  pale,  looking  at  her  wildly.] 
Cruel     woman !      Ignorance  —  Inexperience ! 
The  instincts  raging,  but  the  heart  unborn. 
No  love,  no  hope  for  me  in  you! 

ANNE 

[With  frenzy.]  O  God!  Have  you  not 
caused  me  anguish  that  suffices?  Idler,— rob- 
ber   of    your    children's    living,— unnatural 


122  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

dreamer  of  false  dreams!     Go — let  me  not 
see  you  more.    Or,  if  you  will  stay  there  like 
a  block  that  understands  not  your  own  sin. 
I  will  go  while  my  children  wait  without  in 
the  garden  and  wander  the  streets  till  I  am 
free  from  your  presence  that  so  maddens  me. 
[She  opens  the  closed  door  and  rushes 
out  into  the  now  empty  street  and  dis- 
appears.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  intense  bitterness."]  Give  greatness, 
— shall  not  greatness  be  returned  ?  The  bards 
and  books  have  written  it, — but  O  how  many 
lies  go  masqueing  through  Time,  for  hun- 
gry souls  to  starve  and  die  upon!  Where 
have  I  so  failed,  that  set  perfection  as  my 
mark?  We  must  look  to  the  larger  tribunal 
when  the  judge  of  the  Hearthstone  goes  blind. 
But,  when  the  spring  grows  bitter,  how  may 
the  waters  of  life  be  sweet?  O  Life,  me- 
thought  you  were  my  friend!  Wherefore 
did'st  trap  me  in  this  iron  web?    What  Devil- 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  123 

spider  lurking  at  its  edge  waits  to  end  my 
struggles  with  its  sting?  Yet  out  beyond  my 
web  there  lies  the  world.  So  mighty  in  allure- 
ment, so  vast  in  opportunity.  [He  stretches 
out  his  arms.]  I  have  a  lust  for  life  and  love! 
What  do  I  see  here?  What  do  I  hear?  No 
Beauty — no  Peace — nor  no  Progressing.  There 
is  no  longer  foothold  for  me  here  in  mine  own 
place.  For  their  enriching  I  must  leave  my 
father,  my  mother,  and  those  sweet  lives  that 
taught  me  through  my  own  heart  what  God's 
love  for  men  must  be.  It  may  be  that  the  same 
Providence  that  pushes  the  fledglings  from 
their  nest  now  flings  me  forth  from  mine.  I 
have  watched  young  birds  newly  fallen  again 
and  yet  again  to  earth.  Some  snatch  of  my 
own  life  caught  me  from  sight  of  what  befel 
the  helpless,  pitiable,  soft  things.  Never  saw 
I  one  fly  to  safety!  Yet  before  the  summer 
passed,  the  trees  were  sweet  with  song  from 
the  young  thrushes'  throats.  Am  I — a  man 
— less  master  of  my  fate  than  they? 

"Come  with  us,"  the  players  said.     There 


124  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

was  a  large  music  in  the  words.  "  To  Lon- 
don." A  place  that  breeds  such  miracles  of 
finished  loveliness  as  was  that  prince-boy  of 
the  forest,  must  be  a  soil  where  lives  can 
grow.  Where  beats  now  that  gallant  young 
heart  ?  I'll  seek  him  out !  God  makes  a  patch 
of  blue  for  us  in  every  sky, — some  star,  how- 
ever dim,  the  night.     . 

[He  goes  to  the  cupboard  and  takes  out 
several  manuscripts  which  he  puts  with 
the  charred  one  into  a  canvas  hunting 
bag  hanging  on  the  wall.   He  empties  a 
wallet  at  his  side  on  the  table.    A  few 
coins  drop  out.    He  takes  one  and  re- 
places it  in  the  wallet.  ] 
This  will  buy  food.    [He  leaves  the  others  on 
the  table."}     I  have  often  walked  thirty  miles 
for  pleasure,  why  not  thrice  thirty  for  my 
life? 

[He  slings  his  gun  and  hunting-bag  over 
his  shoulder.  He  goes  to  the  table  and 
writes.} 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  125 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Writing."}  My  father  and  my  mother. 
— Opportunity  to  refill  our  too  empty  purse 
takes  me  to-day  to  London.  There  is  needful 
haste  so  that  I  may  not  now  say  more,  but  at 
the  first  stage  of  my  journey  I  will  write  all 
that  your  own  minds  may  ask.  Give  me  your 
trusts  and  your  good  patience  until  my  letter 
come.  Your  great  hearts  will  greatly  wait. 
Will. 

[He  continues  to  write  on  another 
paper.] 
Anne :  You  have  bid  me  go.  You  wish  free- 
dom from  the  sight  of  me.  True  it  is  with 
some,  that  what  the  eye  seeth  not  the  heart 
rueth  not.  So  I  go.  What  I  win  from  for- 
tune shall  be  yours  with  but  a  moiety  for  my 
sustaining.  Though  you  know  it  not,  to  one 
goal, — Peace  and  Prosperity, — from  our  too 
separate  points  we  look.  The  lines  converge. 
When  time  brings   them  so  close  that  you 


126  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

know  our  vision  is  the  same,  though  differing 
in  degree,  I  will  come  again. 
Will. 
[He  leaves  the  letters  on  the  table  and 
taking  his  cap  and  gun  goes  to  the 
door.'] 

a  child's  voice 
[From  without  the  garden  door.] 
Father!     Sweet  father!    Let  me  in. 


ANOTHER   CHILD'S   VOICE 


Let  me  come  to  you  father! 


SHAKESPEARE 

[With  fierce  anguish.]  God  blast  in  hell 
the  fiend  that  sends  those  voices  to  knock  at 
my  heart  to  weaken  its  resolution — all's  dark 
again!  My  way  as  black  as  night — and  I — 
blind.  Yet,  if  I  stay,  life  perishes  in  blank- 
ness  like  my  father's. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  127 

THE    CHILDREN'S    VOICES 

[Without. ]    Father!    Father! 
[Shakespeare    goes    wildly    toward    the 
voices,  then  turning  away  he  covers 
his  ears  with  his  hands  and  rushes 
from  the  house  to  the  street.'] 

CURTAIN 


ACT   II 


SCENE    II 


Scene]:  [Night.  In  the  background 
large  meadow-land,  very  slightly  rolling,  with 
sleeping  sheep  guarded  by  sheep-dogs  who 
also  sleep.  A  still  stream  lighted  by  moon- 
light winds  across  the  meadows  at  a  distance 
in  the  background.  At  left,  near  the  back, 
are  the  imposing  gates  of  a  private  park  and 
behind  them,  at  a  distance,  is  seen  the  shad- 
owy outline  of  a  Castle  or  Manor  House  with 
dim  lights  shining  in  some  of  its  windows. 
The  sky  is  full  of  stars  and  the  moonlight 
lights  everything.  At  the  right  near  the 
back  an  old  shepherd  in  a  cloak  and  broad  hat 
watches  the  sheep,  leaning  on  his  staff. 
There  is  a  group  of  trees  behind  the  shepherd 
but  far  enough  away  for  his  -figure,  turned 
away  from  the  audience,  to  be  clearly  out- 
128 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  129 

lined  against  the  moonlit  plain.     Enter  from 
right  Shakespeare,  walking  wearily. ] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Can  lead  be  quicksilver,  or  night  be  day! 

How  then  can  all  this  dead  weight  in  my 
heart 

Be  turned  again  to  light  and  life  and  song? 
[He  stops  and  looks  toward  the  mead- 
ows.'] 

This  is  a  sweet  land !    Full  of  rest  and  peace ; 

With    grassy    meads    and    waters    clear    as 
Heaven. 

I'll  lie  among  those  quiet  lambs  and  sleep, 

And  let  the  Master-Shepherd  lead  my  soul 

Up  to  the  stars  for  Light. 

[He  goes  a  few  steps  further  and  sees 
the  shepherd  who  has  been  hidden 
from  him  by  the  group  of  trees.] 

Ev'n  here  a  taint! 

A  shepherd  of  this  earth  to  reckon  with. 

Hola,  my  friend! 

THE    SHEPHERD 

[Startled.]     Who  comes?    He  has  a  gun. 


130  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

A    poacher — or    a    murderous    highwayman. 
What   do   you,    trespasser   on   private   land? 
Off,  or  I'll  set  my  dogs  on  you,  or  call 
The  castle  guard! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Laughing. ]     Let  your  dogs  sleep! 

[He  takes  off  his  gun  and  holds  it  out 
to  the  shepherd.] 

Take  this, 
It  is  uncharged.     I  do  not  come  to  poach, 
And  as  for  robbery — Truth,  I  lack  force 
For  even  that — if  such  were  my  intent! 
My   ankles   bend,    my   knees   are    turned   to 

straw. 
I  have  walked  more  than  thirty  miles  to-day. 
Let  me  lie  there  among  your  sleeping  sheep, 
Share  their  mute  rest  and  steal  away  at  dawn, 
And  be  to  you  a  half-forgotten  shade 
Of  night.     Do  you  consent? 

THE    SHEPHERD 

[Coming  nearer  and  peering  into  his  face.] 

A  wayfarer, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  131 

And  young! 

[He  takes  his  gun  and  examines  it.'] 

Uncharged.    You  are  an  honest  man. 
It  is  not  strange  you  seemed  an  evil  one. 
A  month  ago,  upon  a  night  like  this, 
A  night  of  stars, — a  man,  armed,  ev'n  as  you, 
Asked  me  his  way, — and  yonder  in  the  copse 
A  flight-shoot  from  the  brays,  that  very  night, 
He  killed  a  pedlar  for  his  gold.     At  dawn 
I  found  the  body  bleeding  in  the  fern. 
They  caught  the  killer  and  this  very  hour 
He's   swinging  at  the   cross-roads,    not    far 

hence. 
On   quiet   nights,   like  this — when  a   breeze 

blows 
This  way,  you  hear  the  clanking  of  the  chains, 
Ay,  Ay,  quite  clear! 

[In  the  group  of  trees  chains  clank."] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Shuddering. 1 

Does  murder  haunt  that  copse  ? 
I  thought  to  hear  of  chanting  nightingales. 


1 32  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

THE    SHEPHERD 

Nightingales,    say  you?    Ay,   there's   plenty 

there 
But  they  all  sing   in   June.    Whence   come 

you,  Sir? 
And  whither  go? 

SHAKESPEARE 

From  Stratford,  on  the  Avon ; 
I  go  to  London. 


THE    SHEPHERD 

You  fare  far  afield. 


SHAKESPEARE 

I  seek — a  Friend!  Not  many  miles  away 
May  one  not  find  the  Country-Seat  of  that 
Illustrious  youth,  the  Earl  of  Southampton? 


THE    SHEPHERD 

Look  there — Those  are  his  gates. 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE         133 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  intense  eagerness.'] 

Am  I  so  near? 


THE    SHEPHERD 

His  castle  lights  shine  there. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Is  he  within? 

THE    SHEPHERD 

He  was — he  will  be — but,  look  you,  he  goes 
At  sunrise  with  his  train  to  London  town. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Where  is  he  now? 

THE    SHEPHERD 

Beside  the  river-bank 
He  wanders  with  a  troop  of  young  court- folk 
As  gay  and  mad  as  he.     With  gray  heads  too, 


i34  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Old  sheep-dogs — like  to  mine — to  keep  their 

lambs 
From  frollicking  too  far. 

[In  the  distance  soft  music  sounds  and 

ceases.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

How  wondrously 
Those   floating   tones   assuage   the   ear   and 

heart ! 
I  had  forgotten  there  was  music  in 
The  world.     [Another  strain  is  heard.~\ 


THE    SHEPHERD 

O,  ay!    They  even  walk  to  tunes, 
Dance,  sing  and  play  with  cup  and  ball  by 

night, 
And  squander  days  at  cards  and  dice  and 

bowls. 

SHAKESPEARE 

And  never  tire! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  135 

THE    SHEPHERD 

If  they  tire,  sir, 
It  is  with  pleasure.     If  they  weary,  sure 
'Tis  surfeiting  of  overmuch  enjoyment. 

SHAKESPEARE 

There's  art  far  finer,  friend,  in  starving  for 
A  joy  and  feeding  with  sharp  joy  upon 
It,  when  it  comes  at  last. 

[Soft  music  is  heard  nearer.    It  ceases 
again.'] 

THE    SHEPHERD 

[Turning  and  pointing  to  the  right."] 

See  where  they  come! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Looking  and  speaking  eagerly] 
He  who  walks  first  with  curls  that  burn  deep 

gold, 
Under  the  silver  moon,  is  the  young  Earl,— 
Is  it  not  so? 


136  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

THE    SHEPHERD 

Ay,  he's  but  fourteen  years 
Yet  heighted  like  a  man.     The  little  maid 
He  leads,  the  Lady  Bridget  Manners, — whom 
'Tis  said,  he  courts  in  deadly  boyish-love. 


SHAKESPEARE 

A  man's  tenacity!  Four  years  ago 
He  lisped  in  his  child-music  of  this  child. 
[The  music,  still  soft,  is  heard  continu- 
ously, close  at  hand.  A  procession 
of  youths  and  maidens  of  from  four- 
teen to  sixteen  years  approach  with 
two  or  three  older  men  and  women 
and  accompanied  by  musicians  play- 
ing. They  wear  summer  court  cos- 
tumes and  Hit  across  the  stage  from 
the  right  to  the  left,  and  enter  the 
gates  of  the  castle.  They  pass  with 
soft  laughter  and  music,  more  like  a 
procession  of  spirits  than  of  human 
beings.    As      Southampton      passes, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  137 

Shakespeare  springs  forward,  with 
outstretched  hands  as  if  to  touch  and 
hold  him.  The  procession  disappears 
completely  behind  the  gates  and  wall 
of  the  castle.  Shakespeare  stands  in 
the  centre  of  the  stage  watching  as  if 
expecting  it  to  re-appear.'] 

THE    SHEPHERD 

They  will  not  come  again  to-night!    Listen — « 
I  have  a  hut  a  stone's  throw  space  from  here, 
Rest  there — the  ground  is  hard,   ev'n    for 
young  bones. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Not  so.     I'll  sweeter  rest  beneath  the  stars. 

SHEPHERD 

Well — well — we  are  all  mad  when  we  are 
young! 

[Exit  Shepherd  to  hut."] 
[Enter  hastily  from  gate  an  old  Lady- 
in-Waiting,  stout  and  breathless.] 


138  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

LADY-IN-WAITING 

[Calling.']     Elisabeth!     Elisabeth  Vernon! 

Where  has  the  mad  girl  gone?    Find  her  I 
must, 

Else  will  her  Cousin  Essex  rail  at  me. 

[She  hurries  into  the  shrubbery  near 
the  gate  without  seeing  Shakespeare. 
Enter  from  the  group  of  trees  at  right, 
close  to  where  Shakespeare  stands, 
{Elisabeth  Vernon.  She  is  a  tall  girt 
of  eleven  or  twelve  years  wearing  a 
pale  green  dress  of  soft  silky  gauze, 
clinging  closely  and  not  reaching  quite 
to  her  ankles.  Her  arms  and  throat 
are  bare.  Her  dark  hair  falls  on  her 
shoulders  and  her  head  is  crowned 
with  a  wreath  of  green  leaves.  As 
she  sees  Shakespeare,  she  stops  and 
stands  staring  at  him  in  surprise.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

My  Dryad  come  to  life! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  139 

ELISABETH 

[Looking    at   him   wonderingly,   speaks 
with  easy,  fearless  confidence.'] 

What  is  a  Dryad? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Enchanting  fearlessness ! 

[He  speaks  as  if  telling  a  fairy  tale  to  a 
child.] 

...    A  Dryad  is 
A  woodland  sylph,  born  in  a  hollow  tree 
Needing  no  shelter  but  the  leaves  and  sky. 

ELISABETH 

What  pretty  words  you  speak!     But  I'm  no 

Dryad! 
For  I  am  but  Elisabeth  Vernon. 
Now,  who  are  you? 

SHAKESPEARE 

A  Passionate  Pilgrim. 

ELISABETH 

[Shaking  her  head.] 
I  never  heard  of  one  before!     But  though 
Your  speech  is  strange,  I  see  your  gentlehood. 


Ho  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  emotion.'} 
High  Heaven  has  giv'n  you  vision  far  beyond 
Your  world  and  years. 


ELISABETH 

My  world?    What  is  my  world? 


SHAKESPEARE 

You're  of  the  castle  and  the  court. 


ELISABETH 

[Joyously.} 

Well  guessed! 
[She  draws  near  Shakespeare,  speaking 
confidentially.'] 
Have  you  seen  anyone  pass  here? 


SHAKESPEARE 

A  troop — 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  141 

ELISABETH 

[Interrupting.] 
Ah!    They  are  in  the  castle!    He  forgot! 

[She  tears  the  wreath  of  green  leaves 
from  her  head  and  throws  it  on  the 
ground,  stamping  on  it  with  fury.~\ 


SHAKESPEARE 

[With  quick  anger. ] 
Wanton  cruelty! 


ELISABETH 

[Looking  about  in  wonder.] 

Where?    Who  is  cruel? 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Picking  up  the  wreath  and  smoothing 

the   crushed  leaves.     Elisabeth  draws 

closer,  looking  at  him  with  surprise."] 

You — who  so  wound  these  gentle,  harmless 

leaves. 


142  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

ELISABETH 

I    wore    that    crown    for    Southampton — I 

waited 
In  the  meadow  where  he  said  he'd  come, 
And  he  forgot  me  quite! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With    gay    irony.'] 

A     fruitless    tryst ! 
This  is  my  love-struck  Dryad  in  very  truth! 

ELISABETH 

Who  walked  he  with  ?    A  maid  with  hair  like 
flax? 

SHAKESPEARE 

{With  mock  earnestness.'] 
The  very  same! 

ELISABETH 

That  frozen  Bridget  Manners! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  143 

SHAKESPEARE 

[In  the  same  manner.] 
The  very  same! 


ELISABETH 

[Suddenly  sobbing.'] 

He  has  forgotten  me, 
And  no  one  loves  me! 


SHAKESPEARE 

Magic  there  surely  is 
In  both  her  childish  hate  and  love  that  melts 
My    heart    within    me!    Woodland    Child- 
Princess, 
/  love  you  and  I  never  shall  forget! 

[Voices  within  the  gate.] 
Elisabeth!    Elisabeth! 


ELISABETH 

They  call! 
And  I  must  go. 


i44  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

Once  more,  farewell  my  Dryad! 

ELISABETH 

[Putting  her  face  close  to  his.] 
I   like   you   much!     Pray  come   to   London 
soon! 

[She  waves  her  hand  to  him  and  runs 
toward  the  gate  and  disappears  in  the 
shrubbery  within  the  gate.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Such  beings  as  that  radiant  girl  and  boy 
Reveal  myself  to  me.     I  may  not  think 
Upon  my  darlings  left  behind.     Tis  ruin. 
Yet  I  still  love  and  evermore  must  love — 
Love  makes  a  mighty  music  in  my  heart 
And  must  find  noble  hearts  to  answer  it 
A  world  on  which  to  lavish  all  its  wealth. 

[He  goes  toward  back  near  gates.] 
I'll  wrap  myself  in  dreams  of  those  I've  seen, 
And  lying  at  their  castle  gates  all  night 
I'll  wake  with  dawn  and  follow  in  the  dust 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  145 

Of  their  swift  speeding  hence,  as  if  'twere 

clouds 
'Round  Phoebus'  golden  chariot  wheels, — to 

London ! 
[He  goes  to  the  gates  and  lies  down  near 

them,  using  his  bag  as  a  pillow. ] 

CURTAIN — END  OF  ACT   II 


ACT  III 

Twelve  Years  Later 

THE  LURE  OF  ELISABETH 

MAY,   1598 


ACT   III 

Twelve  Years  Later 

THE  LURE  OF  ELISABETH 

May,  1598 

Scene:  {The  inner  Court  of  the  London 
house  of  the  Earl  of  Southampton.  The 
sides  of  the  court  at  right  and  left  and  back 
are  Hanked  by  the  walls  of  the  house  of  a 
pinkish  cream-colored  stone  with  windows  and 
balconies.  The  space  between  these  walls  is 
filled  by  a  grass  covered  court.  On  the  right 
is  a  dais  with  seats,  and  at  the  back  is  an 
arched  opening  showing  an  alley  bordered  by 
a  high  clipped  hedge.  The  extreme  fore- 
ground of  the  stage  is  composed  of  a  very 
low  Hat  terrace  which  runs  all  across  the  stage 
from  right  to  left.  The  front  towards  the 
spectators  is  entirely  open.  At  its  farther 
149 


ISO  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

edge  are  very  high,  wide  arches  reaching  al- 
most to  the  top  of  the  proscenium  and  sup- 
ported by  four  slender  columns,  one  at  either 
side  on  the  extreme  right  and  left  and  the 
other  two  at  even  distances  apart.  The  char- 
acters pass  across  this  species  of  low  terrace, 
supposed  to  be  a  part  of  the  front  portion  of 
the  house.  Through  the  lofty  arches,  all  that 
is  enacted  in  the  court  is  seen.  When  the 
curtain  rises,  lackeys  are  hanging  tapestries 
and  silk  hangings  over  the  balconies  and  plac- 
ing Howers  in  the  stone  vases  at  the  sides  of 
the  court  and  on  the  dais.  Musicians  with 
their  instruments  enter  one  of  the  balconies. 
Laughing  maids  lean  out  of  the  windows  of 
the  house  and  the  lackeys  throw  -flowers  at 
them,  which  they  try  to  catch.  In  one  of  the 
balconies  a  page  plays  with  a  cup  and  ball  and 
another  teases  a  parrot  on  a  perch.  Across 
the  centre  of  the  green  from  right  to  left  is 
a  stone  wall  or  barrier  about  three  feet  in 
height.  There  are  arched  exits  at  each  side 
and  also  a  low  closed  doorway  at  the  left.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  151 

[Enter  Florian  from  left,  hastily  yet 
with  conceited  grace.  He  is  a  slender, 
fair -haired  youth  and  wears  a  page's 
costume  of  pale  blue.'] 


FLORIAN 

[Calling  to  left.]  Now  follow  the  rest  of 
you,  in  Venus*  name! 

[Enter  four  pages,  running.  Three 
wear  the  same  costume  as  Florian. 
The  fourth,  Peter  Dumpser,  a  youth 
of  eighteen,  wears  the  worn  clothes  of 
a  rustic] 

FLORIAN 

Stand  there,  my  sky-larks,  and  tune  your 
throats.  [To  musicians  in  balcony.]  A 
Harmony,  Gentlemen,  a  delectable  Harmony 
of  Hautboys  and  Shawms! 


FIRST     MUSICIAN 

Which  one,  gallant  Florian? 


152  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

FLORIAN 

The  one  you  have  set  to  my  Lord  South- 
ampton's song  to  the  Lady  Bridget  Manners. 

FIRST    MUSICIAN 

We  have  the  music  here. 

FLORIAN 

We  are  to  salute  the  Lady  Bridget's  ears 
with  the  same  this  hour  when  she  comes  to 
see  the  fighting  with  swords  at  the  barriers, 
which  my  Lord  proposes  to  play  to-day  be- 
fore the  ladies  of  the  Court.  Your  words, 
chaunters ! 

[The   pages   produce    leaflets   with    the 
words  of  the  song.~\ 

FIRST    MUSICIAN 

We  are  ready,  gentle  Sir. 

[They  play  the  opening  measure.'] 

FLORIAN 

[Beating  time  with  a  >wand.~\     Now  with 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  153 

a  softness  since  the  opening  words  are  dolo- 
rous— yet,  as  there  is  a  daring  courage  in  the 
closing  stanzas,  with  a  joyful  noise  through- 
out. 

[All  begin  to  sing  to  the  accompaniment 

of  the  musicians.] 
Love  hath  ever  wrought  me  woe, 
Brought  me  miseries  long  ago, 
Wrung  my  soul  with  piercing  pain, 
Furies  followed  in  his  train. 


FLORIAN 

[Putting  his  hands  over  his  ears.]  O — O 
— O!  Love  never  wrung  the  soul  of  any 
mortal  as  you  are  wringing  mine  now.  This 
is  harmony  run  mad.     Again  the  first  line. 

THE    PAGES 

[Singing.]  Love  hath  ever  wrought  me 
woe — 

FLORIAN 

There  is  a  voice  there  like  a  grater.     [To 


154  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Peter  Dumpser.']  Tis  yours.  You  have  no 
more  voice  than  a  peacock,  and  (observing 
his  costume)  without  the  peacock's  excuse  of 
pretty  feathers.     What  do  you  here? 

PETER 

[In  a  whining  voice.']  The  Steward  bade 
me  present  myself  to  you  and  you  bade  me 
sing.  It  is  true,  Sir,  I  have  no  voice.  I  am 
but  endeavoring  to  make  a  joyful  noise. 

FLORIAN 

Who  are  you? 

PETER 

My  Lord  Southampton's  new  page. 

FLORIAN 

His  new  page!  Then  your  garments  are 
older  than  your  office.  Whence  do  you 
come? 

PETER 

From  Stratford. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  155 

FLORIAN 

From  Stratford!     As  far  from  London  as 
Heaven!     Where  is  your  page's  dress? 


PETER 

The  Steward  gave  it  me,  but  he  bade  me 
go  to  you  without  delay  that  you  should  in- 
struct me  in  my  duty;  so  I  came  as  I  was. 

FLORIAN 

An  obedience  that  has  its  uses  as  well  as  its 
dangers.  Go,  put  on  your  habit  and  return 
to  me  here. 

[Exit  Peter.'] 

FLORIAN 

[To  pages,  beating  time.']     Again.     I  will 
take  his  part.     Speak  the  words  with  clear- 
ness, for  'tis  a  well-penned  metre  intended  to 
reach  the  lady's  heart  through  her  ears. 
[All  sing.]  ^ 


156  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SONG 

Love  hath  ever  wrought  me  woe, 
Brought  me  misery  long  ago, 
Wrung  my  soul  with  piercing  pain, 
Furies  followed  in  his  train. 

But  at  last  I  snared  the  Boy, 
Clipped  his  wings,  and  O,  the  Joy ! 
For  Love  taught  my  Love  Love's  ways, 
Nights  of  balm  and  blissful  days. 

But  Alas!  the  story  saddens, 
For  the  fickle  maiden  maddens, 
Told  me  plainly  she  loved  Love, 
Holding  him  all  else  above. 

But  we  cannot  love  without  Love, 
Cannot  doff  him  as  a  glove, 
We  will  keep  but  curb  him  duly, 
That  my  Love  may  love  me  truly. 

{Exeunt  Musicians.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  157 

FLORIAN 

The  song  is  well  enough,  but  I  doubt  its 
effect.  There  is  more  in  love  than  decorum. 
I  have  watched  the  Lady  Bridget, — and  if 
the  passion  in  her  run  not  more  to  good  con- 
duct than  tenderness,  then  my  eye  is  deceived 
as  I  amourously  glint  it  among  the  ladies  of 
the  Court. 

[Enter  Peter  Dumpser  in  a  habit  like 
those  of  the  other  pages. ] 
[To  pages. .]     Go  wait  in  the  ante-chamber 
while  I  instruct  this  Mirror  of  Truth  in  a  little 
vital  dissembling. 

[Exeunt  pages  casting  scornful  looks  at 
Peter.'] 

FLORIAN 

What  is  your  name? 

PETER 

Peter  Dumpser,  Sir. 

FLORIAN 

Peter   Dumpser!    Your    parents    were   as 


158  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

cruel  as  mine,  who  called  me  Samuel  Swales, 
— but  when  my  Lord  Southampton  asked  me 
my  name,  I  answered  Florian,  whereon  he 
immediately  gave  me  a  place  in  his  house- 
hold. Could  he  have  a  Samuel  Swales  and 
a  Peter  Dumpser  to  carry  his  love-missives, 
think  you?  You  shall  not  be  Peter,  but 
Pierre,  after  the  French  fashion. 

PETER 

Is  not  my  own  name  good  enough  for  a 
page,  Sir? 

FLORIAN 

Good  enough  for  a  page!  Look  you,  a 
page's  office  may  be  the  first  step  to  that  of 
confidant  of  a  king  or  the  beloved  of  a  prin- 
cess. 

PETER 

How  may  that  be? 

FLORIAN 

Tis  History.  I  have  read  it  in  my  Lord's 
books.     There  was  Hyacinthus  who  was  a 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  159 

kind  of  page  to  Apollo,  Lord  of  Music. 
Apollo  so  loved  Hyacinthus  that  he  turned 
things  about  and  became  his  page  in  turn, 
even  carrying  his  arrows  to  the  chase.  There 
was  Chastelard,  page  to  Queen  Mary  of 
Scotland,  who,  had  he  not  been  over-bold, 
might  have  been  made  her  consort,  for  did  she 
not  lean  upon  him  in  the  Dance?  There  was 
Ganymede,  who  was  so  fair  that  an  eagle  car- 
ried him  away  to  be  page  to  Jupiter,  one  of 
the  Kings  of  Heaven.  Since  knowing  this, 
being  rarely  beautiful  myself,  whenever  I  see 
an  eagle,  I  hide. 

[He  takes  out  of  a  pouch  a  hand  mirror  of 
burnished  silver  and  looks  at  himself 
with  rapture,  arranging  his  curls.] 

PETER 

Can  such  things  be? 

FLORIAN 

Printed  History. 

PETER 

I  can  hardly  believe  you! 


160  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

FLORIAN 

A  page  has  his  opportunities.  I  see  what 
others  do  not. 

PETER 

[Drawing  close  and  looking  at  his  eyes.] 
Yet  are  your  eyes  no  larger  than  mine! 

FLORIAN 

Dolt!  It  is  not  the  eye,  but  what  looks 
through  it.  Listen.  All  London  knows  that 
Lord  Southampton  courts  Lady  Bridget  Man- 
ners. Every  dog  sees  that!  But  I  see  that — 
[Here  he  holds  up  four  fingers  and  checks 
off  the  names  on  them]  while  Southampton 
ever  pursues  Lady  Bridget,  Mistress  Elisa- 
beth Vernon  follows  Southampton,  'and  in 
his  turn,  Master  Will  Shakespeare  watches 
Mistress  Elisabeth  Vernon  with  fixed  and 
dreaming  eyes — and  so  there  they  are  like 
four  crows  on  a  wall,  each  looking  after  the 
other. 

PETER 

Would  that  I  might  see  as  you  do! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  161 

FLORIAN 

Behold  me.  I  am  still  a  page,  yet  when 
my  Lord  goes  to  Court,  I  am  always  with 
the  gentlewomen-in-waiting  by  my  good  will. 
There  I  am  in  the  midst  of  them,  all  hot  in 
amity,  of  look  so  lovely,  smiling  to  the  eye. 
I  gracify  the  matters  with  the  proudest  of 
them.  It  is,  gentle  Florian  here  and  kind 
Florian  there!  There  is  one  named  Phillida, 
— a  tall,  sad-eyed,  very  perspiring  girl, — but 
with  a  rare  appreciation  of  me.  I  have  writ 
her  madrigals.  Do  you  think  if  they  were 
signed  Samuel  Swales  there  could  be  aught 
of  romance  about  them?  But  to  Court  we 
seldom  go  now,  for  my  Lord  passes  his  days 
at  the  playhouse  with  the  great  playwright 
Master  Will  Shakespeare,  who  has  become  so 
famous  that  even  the  Queen  commands  him 
to  give  one  of  his  plays  before  her  at  the 
Earl  of  Merton's  country  seat  next  month. 

PETER 

Is  Will  Shakespeare  become  so  famous  as 
that? 


i62  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

FLORIAN 

Lord  Southampton  is  foolish  enough  to 
think  him  as  great  a  man  as  he  is  himself — 
but  then  he  is  a  poet  too!  But  for  yourself, 
Peter,  remember  well  when  my  Lord  asks 
your  name  answer  boldly  Pierre. 

PETER 

But  that  is  not  true. 

FLORIAN 

Truth  is  out  of  fashion  at  court.  Were  it 
to  come  in  again  the  Queen's  imagination  of 
herself  could  never  survive  it.  It  once  ruled 
the  universe  undisputed,  but  that  was  ages 
gone  when  Adam  was  but  a  vapour  and  Eve 
a  sweet  breath  of  air.  No,  no,  Pierre.  Be- 
lieve me,  to  lie  honorably  is  one  of  the  first 
duties  of  a  page.  The  guests  come  soon.  I 
have  not  eaten  since  morning.  By  my  soul, 
which  I  believe  has  its  dwelling  in  that  part 
which  nourishes  me,  I  am  hungry! 
[Enter  the  other  pages.} 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  163 

FIRST   PAGE 

Shall  we  keep  the  Court,  Sir,  as  is  the  cus- 
tom at  this  hour? 

FLORIAN 

[Angrily]    Who  bade  you  intrude  on  me? 
Pierre  keeps  the  Court  to-day,  while  I  eat. 
Out — and  wait  on  me  when  I  bid  you. 

[Exit  pages  with  angry  looks  at  Florian 
and  Pierre.] 


FLORIAN 

I  go.  Keep  you  the  Court.  If  any  stranger 
come,  ask  him  his  name  and  business.  If  he 
answer  not  to  your  satisfaction,  be  in  the 
bones  of  him  at  once. 


PETER 

[Timidly.]     How  may  that  be,  seeing 
Lve  no  sword? 


have  no  sword? 


FLORIAN 

Have  you  not  fists  and  feet?     Speak  to 


164  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

him  a  rough  speech  full  of  passions  with  your 
tongue  and  let  your  other  members  do  the 
rest.  Come  aside  and  I  will  show  you  the 
right  knock.  See — there— and  there — and 
there — 

[Exeunt  Florian  and  Peter,  Florian  strik- 
ing and  kicking  and  tripping  Peter  up. 
Pester  helplessly  parrying  his  blows.'] 
[Enter  Shakespeare  and  Southampton, 
walking  slowly,  their  arms  around  each 
other's  shoulders,  their  heads  bent  to- 
gether  in  earnest  talk.  They  wear 
Court  costumes,  Southampton's  of 
more  splendid  ornament  than  Shake- 
speare's. Southampton  wears  his  hair 
in  long  golden  curls  on  his  shoulders. 
At  centre  they  stop  and  separate, 
Shakespeare  still  keeping  his  hand  on 
Southampton's  shoulder.] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Beware  of  Essex. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  165 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[With  surprise.']     Say  you  so,  and  why? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Mistake  me  not,  Southampton,  for  the  man 

Compels  my  love; — since  Nature  hath  herself 

Compounded  him  of  vital  elements. 

Urbanity  innate,  a  noble  person, 

Of  courtesy  that  oft  fulfils  itself 

Against  the  current  of  his  headstrong  will. 

But  deep  beneath  the  seeming  of  such  grace, 

Lie  boldness,  even  to  temerity, 

And  arrogance  that  forces  him  to  rule, 

Even  though  that  rule  be  ruin  to  himself 

And  those  swept  with  him  in  audacity. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

For  him  the  Queen  waxes  uxorious, 
Softer  than  melting  honey  in  the  sun, 
Which  Essex*  fingers  dabble  in  at  will. 
Such  moulding  at  her  years  is  deep  impressed. 
Essex  is  safe. 


166  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

He  draws  in  over- fast 
Of  the  Queen's  courtesy — as  does  a  child, 
Nursed  ever  by  a  too  indulgent  nurse, 
And  he  will  tire  as  does  the  sated  child 
And  seek  a  newer  plenty  of  his  own 
O'er  which  alone  he  may  have  sovereignty, 
And  give  of  it  to  whom  and  when  he  wills. 
I  speak  but  from  imperious  love  of  you — 
Trust  not  his  dangerous  fondness.    Join  no 

scheme 
Fledged  by  his  rash  imagination. 
Let   comets    dash    their    ruin    through    the 

spheres, 
Shine  you  a  radiant  light  in  your  own  place, 
Apart  and  safe. 

[A  fanfare  of  trumpets  is  heard  without.'} 
What  pleasure  claims  the  hour? 


SOUTHAMPTON 

We  fight  with  swords  against  these  barriers 
I  here  have  raised.     I'm  tired  of  dallying 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  167 

With  baby  sports!     Look  what  a  wonderful 

Sad  change  there  is  in  our  young  Londoners. 

Our  ancient  wrestling  with  strong  force  of 
arms 

To  wallowing  in  ladies'  laps  at  cards; 

Our  running  steeds  and  coursing  hounds  to 
cosseting 

In  chambers  at  the  levees  of  the  Queen — 

England's  young  manhood  turned  to  feeble- 
ness. 

So  I,  to  sting  virility  to  life, 

Again  command  such  foregone  games  as 
these ; 

A  saving  calling-back  of  vigorous  times 

When  even  pleasure  taxed  men's  strength  and 
blood. 

I  lead  one  band's  assault  against  the  other. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Who  leads  against  you? 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Essex. 


168  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

Ah! 
[He  takes  Southampton's  sword  in  his 
hand  and  touches  the  point,  which  is 
covered  by  a  cap.] 

Mark  this. 
A  harmless  button. — If  in  ardent  play- 
That  grows  too  fierce,  such  button  should  be 

wrenched 
From  off  your  enemy's  swift-thrusted  blade, 
What   proud   and   dear  young   blood   would 

flow!     Have  care! 
For  some  men  keep  a  special  dagger  for — 
Their  friends. 

[Another  fanfare  of  trumpets  is  heard.] 
[Enter  Florian.'] 

FLORIAN 

The  guests  approach,  my  Lord. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Come,  Will, 
And  meet  them  at  the  outer  door  with  me. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  169 

[He  throws  one  arm  over  Shakespeare's 
shoulders  as  they  go  out  at  right.'] 

[Exeunt  Shakespeare  and  Southampton, 
followed  by  Florian.] 

[Enter  Peter.] 

PETER 

[Imitating  Florian's  movements.]  There! 
My  left  leg  around  his  leg — thus.  His  head 
under  my  arm — thus.  My  fists  pommelling, 
and  my  right  leg  kicking — whatever  of  his 
other  parts  are  at  my  convenience — thus! 
[Enter  two  pages.] 


FIRST   PAGE 

He  has  a  fit!    Call  the  Steward! 


SECOND   PAGE 

He  is  mad!    Lock  him  in  the  dark  cellar! 
Steward !     Steward ! 


xyo  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

PETER 

Ah,  pray  you,  Sirs,  I  have  no  fit.     I  but 
practice  my  defense  of  the  court. 


FIRST   PAGE 

He  is  a  Natural. 


SECOND   PAGE 

His  defense  of  the  court!  He  thinks  he  is 
in  wild  Scotland  where  they  kill  men  for 
sport  at  supper. 

FIRST   PAGE 

And  our  office  is  given  to  him!     I  shall 
bite  my  nails  with  anger  for  a  week. 
[Enter  third  page.] 

THIRD  PAGE 

My  Lord  Southampton  commands  you  in 
the  outer  court. 

[Exit  third  page.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  171 

PETER 

Before  you  go,  tell  me  what  like  is  my 
Lord  Southampton,  for  I  have  not  yet  seen 
him.  How  is  he  favored?  Dark  or  light? 
How  may  I  know  him? 

FIRST  PAGE 

[To  second  page,  drawing  him  aside. ~\ 
Now  hear  how  I  will  set  a  trap  for  him  that 
he  may  never  take  our  honor  from  us  again. 
\To  Peter. ,]  You  may  know  him  by  his 
being  a  little  man,  fat  and  scrubby.  His  hair 
is  coal  black  and  he  wears  it  short  like  a  priest, 
and  he  has  a  small  black  mustache  on  his 
upper  lip,  like  a  Frenchman.  He  carries  no 
sword  but  always  a  green  parrot  on  his  left 
wrist. 

PETER 

Now  can  I  never  mistake  him! 


SECOND   PAGE 

[Looking  down  the  alley,  speaks  to  the  first 


Vj*  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

page  aside.]    Quick!    Hide  here  with  me,  and 
see  what  follows. 

[The  two  pages  go  to  right  as  if  to  go 
out,  but  hide  behind  a  column.] 


THE   PAGES 

Farewell,  Peter!    Defend  the  court,  Peter! 


PETER 

[Looks  about  the  court,  and  down  the 

alley  at  left  back.]     Someone  comes!    O — he 

is  a  tall  man — he  carries  a  sword.     A  very 

tall  man  and  of  a  masterful  port.     O!     O! 

Hardy  as  I  am,  I  am  very  vengeably  afraid. 

[He     gradually     withdraws     backward 

against  the  further  wall.    Southampton 

appears  at  end  of  alley.] 

PETER 

Florian  said — "speak  to  him  a  rough  speech 
full  of  passions."  But  I  have  no  passions! 
O,  if  my  Mother  were  but  here  to  teach  me 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  173 

language!     But  I  will  do  the  best  I  learned 
from  her. 

[Enter  Southampton."] 


PETER 

[Going  toward  him  with  a  swagger.]    Your 
name,  and  business,  Scullmullion ! 


SOUTHAMPTON 

What  have   we  here?     Out  of  my  way, 
monkey. 

PETER 

[As  if  remembering  a  lesson.]     "If  he 

answer  not  to  your  satisfaction "     [He 

flies  at  Southampton  and  springing  on  him 
winds  his  legs  and  arms  around  him,  kicking 
and  striking  him.]  Learn  not  to  trespass  in 
the  Earl  of  Southampton's  house! 

[The  two  pages  behind  the  column  run 

away.] 
[Enter  Florian.] 


174  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Here,  Florian !  Help  me  pull  off  this  Devil- 
fish, all  legs  and  arms! 

[Florian  pulls  Peter  away."] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[To  Peter.]  What  do  you  mean  by  such 
lunacy  ? 

PETER 

[Pointing  to  Florian.^     He  bade  me. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

What  means  he,  Florian  ? 

FLORIAN 

My  Lord,  he  has  lived  with  sheep  and  cows 
all  his  life  and  has  their  understanding  of 
English.  I  bade  him  keep  intruders  from 
the  court,  and  not  knowing  your  Lordship, 
this  is  his  reading  of  my  instructing. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Chastise  him  well,  Florian,  that  he  may  re- 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  175 

member  that  well-meant  mistakes  are  as  dan- 
gerous as  acts  of  evil  intent.  .  .  .  Bestow 
those  seats  with  more"  dignity.  Place  one  on 
the  highest  dais  as  if  it  were  a  throne,  and 
wait  me  here. 

[Exit  Southampton.'] 

FLORIAN* 

O  Pierre,  Pierre^  you  preserve  your  own 
integrity  at  the  expense  of  that  of  others,  and 
yet  persist  in  calling  your  kind  of  truth  a 
virtue ! 

[He   catches  Peter  by   the  collar   and 

strikes  him  with  his  wand.    Peter  half 

eludes  him,  running  away  a  few  steps, 

but  Florian  catches  him  again.] 

That  was  a  fine  recoil  and  the  slant  of  your 

body  at  this  moment  better  drawn  than  the 

leaning  tower  of  Pisa. 

[Fanfare    of    trumpets    without.      The 
musicians   re-enter   balcony.     Florian 
releases  Peter.] 
Help  me,  Pierre! 


176  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

[They  arrange  the  chairs  on  the  dais  as 
Southampton  directed.  A  festal  march 
is  played.  Enter  musicians  and  guests. 
A  page  calls  the  names  as  they  enter 
and  take  their  places  on  the  dais. 
Southampton  enters  first  and  directs 
them  to  their  places.'] 

PAGE 

Lord  Herbert.  The  Countess  of  Rutland. 
Lady  Bridget  Manners.  The  Earl  of  Rut- 
land. 

[Southampton  leads  all  but  Lady  Bridget 
Manners  to  the  foremost  seats  on  the 
lowest  steps  of  the  dais.  Then  he  takes 
Lady  Bridget's  hand.  She  has  pale 
golden  hair  and  is  dressed  in  white.'] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

In  Joust  and  Tourney  of  our  elder  custom, 
There  ever  was  a  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty. 
Fair  Sweetest,  be  our  Queen  and  crown  our 
winning. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  177 

[He  tries  to  lead  her  to  the  chair  at  the 
top  of  the  dais.] 


BRIDGET 

[Drawing    back.]      My    place    is    by   my 
Mother's  side,  my  Lord. 

COUNTESS  OF  RUTLAND 

Such  is  my  wish,  my  Lord,  and  my  com- 
mand. 

[Lady  Bridget  takes  the  chair  beside  the 
Countess  of  Rutland.] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[With  impatience  and  annoyance.] 
'Tis  fighting  against  barriers  indeed! 

[During  this  dialogue,  Elisabeth  Vernon 
with  a  gentlewoman-in-waiting  enters 
at  left.  Elisabeth  advances  and  then 
withdraws  to  left  and  listens  with  con- 
centrated attention  until  Lady  Bridget 
takes  her  place  by  the  Countess  of  Rut- 
land.   Elisabeth  wears  a  dress  of  ruby 


178  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

colored  brocade  with  a  front  of  white 
and  gold  and  pearls;  a  standing  lace 
ruff  and  jewels  in  her  dark  hair.  The 
Earl  of  Essex  enters  at  left  and  they 
advance  together,  the  gentlewoman 
following.'] 


PAGE 

Mistress  Elisabeth  of  Vernon,  and  The  Earl 
of  Essex. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Welcome,  noble  cousins! 
Essex,  stay  here.  Fair  Mistress  Vernon, 
wait!  • 

[Essex  stands  by  the  chair  on  the  second 
step  of  the  dais  that  Southampton  has 
indicated  and  Elisabeth  Vernon  stands 
alone  in  centre.'] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Pointing  to  the  chair  on  the  top  of  the 
dais.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  179 

See — where  there  waits  for  you  a  queenless 

throne ! 
Have  pity,  pray  you,  on  our  Headless  State! 

ELISABETH 

[With  mocking  raillery.'] 
fA  throne  a-begging  in  a  world  like  ours, 
Where  every  woman  dreams  herself  a  queen! 
'Twould  sure  be  reckless  waste.    Where  is 
my  crown? 

SOUTHAMPTON 

In  Love's  sweet  kingdom  'tis  the  Queen  gives 

crowns, 
Wearing  them  not.    Be  thou  our  generous 

Queen. 

ELISABETH 

Risk  no  fair  titles  till  my  reign  be  tested ! 

[Southampton  leads  her  to  the  top  'of  the 
dais.  She  sits  and  intently  watches 
Southampton.  The  musicians  in  the 
balcony  continue  the  festal  march  while 
other  guests  enter.    The  page  continues 


180  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

to  announce  them,  but  his  voice  is 
drowned  by  the  music.  A  trumpeter 
sounds  a  call  to  arms.  Essex  and  four 
noblemen  take  their  places  on  the  far- 
ther side  of  the  barrier.  Southampton 
and  four  other  noblemen  stand  in  the 
foreground  on  the  side  of  barrier 
nearest  to  the  audience.  The  pages 
divest  them  of  their  ruffs,  cloaks  and 
upper  doublets  and  they  stand  in  their 
white  silk  blouses  and  trunks  and  hose. 
The  pages  give  them  swords. ] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[To  Herbert,  with  solicitude, ] 
Where  now  is  Will  ?     I  shall  not  play  without 
him. 

{Enter  slowly  down  the  clipped  alley  at 
back,  Shakespeare.  He  passes  the 
others  until  he  comes  to  Southampton. 
rAs  he  enters,  Elisabeth  Vernon  turns 
and  iixes  her  eyes  upon  him,  and  as  he 
passes  her  he  turns  slowly,  as  if  forced 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  181 

to  do  so,  and  looks  fixedly  into  her 
eyes;  then  passes  on.~\ 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Taking  a  sword  from  a  page  and  holding 
it  out  to  Shakespeare. ] 
Fight  on  my  side,  Sweet  Will,  that  I  may  win. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Though  love  is  free,  I  am  not  of  your  caste. 
I  am  a  player,  yet — I  will  not  play. 
All  that  takes  place  upon  the  earth  requires 
A  watcher.    Let  me  watch. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[With  anger. 1     A  subtle  stab 
And  undeserved.     Who  does  not  know  that 

Genius 
Is  of  the  highest,  rarest  caste  of  Heaven! 

SHAKESPEARE 

We're  on  the  earth !    But  be  not  hurt,  South- 
ampton, 


1 82  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Nor  weight  me  with  your  pity,  for  I  joy 
In  the  still  watch  I  keep,  more  than  you  can 
In  all  your  straining  play. 

[The  trumpeter  sounds  a  second  call  to 
arms.  The  combatants  stand  at  atten- 
tion. Shakespeare  stands  alone  at  left 
near  front  and  watches  Elisabeth  Ver- 
non. The  game  begins.  Florian  and 
Peter  are  in  the  foreground  at  right. ] 

FLORIAN 

[To  Peter.]     Now  there'll  be  sport! 
Behold  the  Lady  Bridget. — She's  as  pure 
And  cool  as  is  a  snowdrop  in  chill  March — 
A   Morning  Flower!    But  there  above  her 

gleams 
A  Beauty  of  Mysterious  Night.     Mark  how 
Her  dark  regard  burns  on  Southampton,  yet 
He  feels  it  not,  as  ever  low  he  bends 
To  pluck  his  white  Bud  from  the  Fields  of 

Dawn. 
[The  musicians  play.    Essex  and  his  men 

overpower  Southampton  and  his  fol- 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  183 

lowers  and  drivel  them  back  from  the 
barrier.  But  Essex  is  thrown  down 
by  Southampton.  Excitement  among 
the  guests.  The  musicians  stop  play- 
ing.] 

COUNTESS  OF  RUTLAND 

The  game  is  over-rough,  my  Lords,  methinks. 


SOUTHAMPTON 

Madam,  the  Queen's  great  father  and  your 

king 
Much  loved  the  game. 

ELISABETH 

Men  love  not  play  with  toys! 
Am  I  called  Queen?  Then  let  the  game  go 
on. 
[Shakespeare  has  watched  only  Elisa- 
beth. Now  he  turns  wholly  to  South- 
ampton. They  fight  again.  South- 
ampton and  his  men  overpower  Essex 
and  his  band.     The  button  on  Essex's 


184  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

sword  comes  off.  Southampton  tries 
to  elude  him,  but  Essex,  in  a  frenzy  of 
excitement,  forces  him  to  fight,  and 
Southampton  is  suddenly  wounded  in 
the  right  arm.  Shakespeare  has  grad- 
ually drawn  nearer  and  nearer  to  Es- 
sex and  Southampton.'] 

COUNTESS    OF    RUTLAND 

[Rising.] 
Witness!     I  prophesied  brutality! 

ELISABETH 

[Also  rising."] 

Superb!     Ah!  how  I  thrill  with  ecstasy! 

A  sight  worth  living  for  in  our  tame  world! 

[As    Essex's    sword    button    falls    off, 

Shakespeare   springs   into    the  grassy 

arena.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

O  dangerous  Force!     Foul  play! 

[He  seizes  Essex  by  the  arm  and  wrests 
his  sword  from  him.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  185 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Gaily.]    I  thank  you,  Essex. 
Small  wounds  may  turn  great  cowards  into 
heroes. 

ELISABETH 

[Hurriedly  descending  from  her  seat  at 
the  top   of  the  dais  with   a  cry   of 
alarm. 1 
How  should  I  dream  that  blood  was  drawn! 

[She  draws  close  to  Southampton.    Her 
voice  breaks  with  emotion.'] 


ELISABETH 

,.  He  bleeds! 
[She  turns  angrily  to  Essex.] 
Robert,  this  is  more  like  a  dastard's  trick 
Than  noble  sport  between  two  gentlemen. 


ESSEX 

Lash   me   not   more,  my   cousin,   with  your 
tongue 


186  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Than  does  the  heart  within  me,  though  my 

hand 
And  hasty  head  oft  play  it  false! 
[To  Southampton.] 

Pardon ! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Laughing.'] 
How  may  one  pardon  when  there  is  no  sin ! 


ELISABETH 

You  bleed ! 

[She  tears  the  soft  muslin  and  lace  scarf 
from  her  shoulders  and  binds  South- 
ampton's arm  with  passionate  solici- 
tude. Essex  watches  her  with  an  an- 
gry frown.  The  guests  on  the  dais 
are  grouped  together;  some  watching 
Southampton  and  Elisabeth,  some 
talking  together  with  excitement. 
Herbert  has  drawn  Shakespeare  aside 
at  left  and  they  confer  apart,  not  ob- 
serving   that    Elisabeth    has     bound 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  187 

Southampton's  arm.  They  now  come 
forward.  During  this  scene  the  pages 
are  rapidly  re-dressing  the  combatants. 
Elisabeth  takes  a  crimson  ribbon  from 
her  dress  and  fastens  it  on  Southamp- 
ton's arm.'] 


ELISABETH 

An  honor  fairly  won.    Your  knights, 

And  you,   had  triumphed,   'ere  my  cousin's 

sword 
Pierced  you  with  such  unlicensed  cruelty. 
[Southampton  drops  on  one  knee,  takes 
Elisabeth's  hand  and  kisses  it,  bending 
low.  Pembroke  stands  near.  Essex 
and  Shakespeare  at  some  little  distance 
observing  all  that  happens.] 


ESSEX 

[Turning  slightly  away  sings  sneeringly 
in  a  low  voice,  but  with  great  distinct- 
ness.] 


188  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

"  Every  ass 
Must  have  his  grass, 
And  every  fool  his  favor!" 

[The  group  in  centre  turn  to  look  at  Es- 
sex with  confused  surprise,  as  if  not 
catching  the  words.'] 


SHAKESPEARE 

And  had  you  won  the  favor,  Essex,  speak-— 
Which  title  would  best  fit  you,  fool  or  ass? 


ESSEX 

[Instinctively    feeling    for    his    sword, 
which    Shakespeare   still    holds,     and 
then  making  a  gesture  of  anger. ~\ 
Poets  may  safely  jest  with  empty  scabbards! 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Handing  him  his  sword. ] 
While  Earls  may  never  trifle  with  full  brains! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  189 

ESSEX 

Mine  has  a  memory  for  more  than  verses, 
E'en  such  as  yours,  and  punctuates  reminders 
With  the  rash  blood  of  masquerading  rustics, 
As  Ireland  and  Tyrone  shall  attest. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Yet,  in  a  universe  where  nothing  counts 
Except  the  soul,  I  doubt  not,  Essex,  that 
We  two  shall  meet  one  day  on  equal  ground. 
Pray  you  recall  this  when  you  match  yourself 
One  day  against  the  masquerading  rustic. 
[While  Shakespeare  and  Essex  are  talk- 
ing, Florian  helps  Southampton  dress. 
A    fanfare    of    trumpets.    Enter    a 
page.] 

PAGE 

My  Lords,  the  banquet  waits! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Follow  me,  friends, 
And  drink  to  skill  at  arm's,  and  knightliness, 
To  put  King  Arthur's  Table  to  the  blush ! 


i9o  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

[Exit  all  at  right,  but  the  pages,  Essex, 
Elisabeth  Vernon  and  her  gentle- 
woman. The  pages  begin  to  dress  Es- 
sex. Essex  shows  his  impatience  at 
being  dressed.  One  page  tries  to  fas- 
ten a  knee  ribbon;  another  kneels,  at- 
taching the  clasp  of  his  shoe  which  has 
come  undone  in  the  game;  another 
tries  to  put  on  an  upper  garment;  and 
a  fourth  to  replace  his  ruff.'] 


ESSEX 

[Struggling  to  free  himself.'] 
Off,   louts!     You   finger  me   and   cling   like 

leeches. 
Off!    Off!    Out  of  my  way!    Out  of  my 
way! 
[He  Hings  the  pages  aside  and  springs 
•    toward    the   exit,    his  cloak    hanging 
from    one   shoulder,    his   ruff   unfas- 
tened, and  his  whole  dress  in  disor- 
der.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  191 

ESSEX 

Elisabeth ! 

[Elisabeth  has  just  reached  the  exit  and 
turns  when  she  hears  his  voice.  She 
returns  to  hint.] 

ELISABETH 

I  listen,  Robert.     Speak. 

ESSEX 

[With  rough  vigor,  but  with  great  kind- 
ness.} 
Cousin,  that  I  have  love  for  you,  you  know ; 
That  I  have  pride  in  you,  you  guess;  and  yet 
All  that  which  pride  breeds  in  my  blood  for 

you 
Is  still  a  warning  unforeseen.    Should  I 
Unveil  my  heart,  you'd  find  two  images, 
My  wife's  and  yours,  enshrined  there  each  by 

each ; 
Yet  neither  form  usurps  the  other's  place — • 
Each  holds  her  own.     She  first,  you  next, 


i92  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

And  claiming  both  my  staunchest  champion- 
ing 
Should   there  be  need  of   such.     What   are 

your  years? 
For,  I  forget  their  sum; — so  rich,  so  large, 
So  lavish  is  your  burgeoning,  you  seem 
Even  to  me,  who  am  of  your  own  race, 
One  of  those  women,  rarest  on  the  earth, 
Who  have  no  youth,  nor  age,  when  woman- 
hood 
Has    ripened    them;     and    yet — you    are   a 

woman 
With  all  a  woman's  weakness — all  her  fears, 
And  all  her  heritage  of  pain.     As  frail 
As  you  are  proud. 

[He  speaks  with  earnest  force,   taking 
her  hand  in  his.~\ 

You  know  that  in  our  world 
There  are  sharp  lines  that  women  such  as  you 
May  never  cross.     Once  crossed,  their  white- 
ness stained, 
They  may  no  more  be  white.     No  more  re- 
turn. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  193 

Guard  yourself  strictly.  You  stand  near  the 
throne, 

Where  all  eyes  stare,  and  somewhat  of  seclu- 
sion, 

Of  quietness  and  modest  dignity, 

Befits  a  woman  of  your  'rank  and  place. 

ELISABETH 

How  glibly  men  debar  a  woman  from 

The  air   of   freedom  where  they  take  their 

pleasure ! 
How  you    would  rend   a  woman   who  thus 

dared 
To  caution  you,  or  hedge  about  your  will, 
With   mean   precaution.     Robert,   know  you 

not 
God  has  made  women,  as  well  as  men,  with 

souls, 
Bold  and  impassioned,  daring  all  of  life? 
Born  to  consume  themselves  divinely  in 
A  passion's  flame,  yet  ever  strong  enough 
To  fling  their  passion,  quite  outworn,  aside, 
If  some  supreme  ambition  beckoned  them 
On  to  a  fruit  fuller  field. 


194  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

ESSEX 

This  is  indeed 
A  man's  stout  spirit  in  a  woman's  breast. 
The  world  has  cruel  handling  for  such! 
Again,  what  is  your  age? 

ELISABETH 

Past  twenty-two! 

ESSEX 

[With  irony. ] 
The  age  of  wisdom,  Sweet,  undoubtedly. 
Certain  the  age  when  elder  wisdom  counts 
For  naught.     No  more  of  mine  I'll  waste. 

[Again  roughly.  ] 
Of  late,  I've  seen  Southampton's  eyes  on  you. 

ELISABETH 

[With  raillery.} 
On  me!     He  has  but  two  and  they  are  fixed 
On  Bridget  Manners.     But  you  entertain. 
Speak  on. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  195 

ESSEX 

His  eyes  are  fixed  on  her,  on  you, 
On  every  passing  woman.     Well  I  know 
That  bold,  untrammeled,  roving,  gypsy  eye! 
The  gambler's   eye,  with  women.     Marking 

them 
As  this  or  that  most  lucky  card,  to  bring 
Good  fortune,  it  may  be,  and  pleasure  cer- 
tainly. 

ELISABETH 

This  of  your  friend!    What  then  is  friend- 
ship worth, 
If  you  so  strangely  vilify  Southampton? 


ESSEX 

He  is  my  friend,  and  I  am  his,  be  sure ; 

His  is  the  spirit  and  the  blood  that  magnetize 

Both   men   and    women;    for   whose    sunny 

touch, 
Lighting  their  flesh-dulled   Souls,  they   risk 

too  much 


196  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Of  wisdom  and  of  wisdom's  fruitful  ways. 
And  yet  he  is  of  fair  and  blameless  honor. 
The  brightest  star  in  England's  galaxy. 
But  where  a  woman  is  concerned,  he  is 
A  poisoned  brand  of  swift,  contagious  fire. 

[He  speaks  ■fiercely.'] 
Listen,  Elizabeth.     Were  Southampton 
To  put  the  honor  of  one  of  my  race 
In  jeopardy,  my  hand  must  redden  with 
His  blood.     Remember  this,  for  I'll  not  tear 
My  heart  out  of  its  sheath  again  for  you 
To  smile  upon  its  two-edged  pride,  that  cuts 
Not  for  myself  alone  but  for  my  race — 
And  you    .    .    .    The  campaign  into  Ire- 
land 
Draws  ever  near,  and  should  it  be 
Then  I  must  leave  you  here  alone 
Without    a    kinsman's    ward    and    guarding 
presence. 

ELISABETH 

[Caressingly.] 
Ah,  Powers  above !     What  nobleness  of  heart 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  197 

Now  wrought  upon  to  pain,  without  a  cause! 
Go  speak  these  words  to  Bridget  Manners, 

for 
Southampton  ever  hovers  over  her 
Pure,    fragrant  whiteness — the  most  daring 

bee 
That  ever  boldly  pillaged  honey,  in 
June's  palpitating  balm. 

[She  draws  near  to  Essex  and  peers  with 

mockery  and  sweetness  into  his  face.] 
What  fierce,  sad  eyes ! 

ESSEX 

[Angrily.] 
Such  siren  words  and  ways  but  anger  me. 
[Elisabeth  stands  motionless  with  droop- 
ing head,  all  sudden  gentleness.    She 
puts  her  arms  about  his  neck.    Essex 
looks  at  her  a  moment  and  then  speaks 
with  tenderness."] 
Forgive  me,  Beautiful— Most  beautiful— 
Only  do  not  forget!     Go  to  your  friends. 
[He    releases    her    arms— kissing    her 


198  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

hands.  She  smiles  into  his  face  zvith 
confident  strength.  Exit  Elisabeth 
with  her  gentlewoman.} 


ESSEX 

Now  could  I  win  Southampton's  pledge  to  go 
With  me  to  Ireland  and  hasten  the  campaign, 
So  might  this  danger  pass.     The  glittering 

bait 
Of  Cecil's  pending  embassy  to  Paris 
Has  captivated  quite  his  youthful  eye, 
And  when  the  lure  of  pleasure  fills  his  sight, 
How  may  a  battle-field  dissolve  the  spell? 
[Enter  Southampton.'] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Most  fortunately  met!     When  the  night  falls 

And  all  my  guests  are  gone,  I  pray  you, 
Essex, 

Meet  me  here.  I  would  speak  with  you  se- 
cretly 

Upon  the  scheme  you  late  dropped  in  my  ear. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  199 

ESSEX 

[With  intense  eagerness.] 
You'll  go  with  me  to  Ireland? 

SOUTHAMPTON 

I  swear 
My  blood  is  half  asleep  in  England  now, 
Sickening  at  games  for  ladies — though  they 

be 
Lilies  and  roses  all,  to  make  men  drunk 
With  rich  allurement!     Briefly,  I  must  go 
To  Paris  first  with  Cecil — then  with  you 
To  Ireland.     Your  wild  adventure  there, 
Even    in    thought,    quickens    my   blood   and 

brain. 

ESSEX 

When  do  you  go  to  France? 

SOUTHAMPTON 

For  yet  awhile 
I   am   held    here.     Mere    Flower-Bonds,   in- 
deed! 


200  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Yet  not  too  quickly  broken,  since  my  word    ' 
Is  pledged  in  diverse  ways  to  divers  men. 
Yet  I  may  bring  all  circuits  to  a  close 
Before  June's  dew-steeped  nights  are  gently 
past. 
[So un d  of  music  and  carousal  at  right. ] 
I  may  not  linger  now.     At  ten  o'clock 
I'll  meet  you  here. 

ESSEX 

My  word  on  it.     At  ten, 
Yonder  I'll  walk  alone  in  the  yew  path, 
Lacking  to-day  the  small  neat  speech  most 

meet 
For  little  ladies'  ears  at  feasts. 

[Exit  Essex  by  the  clipped  alley  at  back. 
Enter  Shakespeare  from  right.  Sound 
of  music  and  laughter  without.'] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Ah,  Will! 
Sweet  Will,  at  sight  of  you  my  will  dissolves! 
I  thought  to  play  the  Host,  but  now  instead 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  201 

I'll  let  them  laugh  and  drink  of  earthly  wine; 
We'll  quaff  a  finer  vintage  of  the  soul. 
Your  eyes  are  clouded,  that  should  be 
Clear  as  your  mind's  un fathomed  deeps. 
Whence  comes  the  cloud?    I'll  penetrate  it 
too! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Who   knows    where    clouds    are  born?    To 

know  them  mists, 
Formed  out  of  air  and  dew  intangible, 
Dissolving  ever  into  mists  again, 
Is  all  we  need  to  know.     So  can  we  bear 
Their  blinding. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Blind  me  not  with  imagery, 
However  fair.     Turn  your  thoughts  home- 
ward now? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Not  now  alone,  but  ever  more  and  more, 
For  there  are  loves  and  griefs  too  keen  and 
strong 


202  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

To  sleep.     The  cords  that  bind  me  there  are 

tightening. 
They  cannot  break  and  soon  must  draw  me 

back 
To  Stratford — to  my  children  and — my  wife. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Beseech  you,  go  not  hence!  Illume  us  here. 
Too  much  in  this  our  time  by  greatness  gone 
Have  we  been  overcast.     Greece  dead,  Rome 

past — 
You  live!     Filling  our  beauty-craving  hearts, 
Quickening  our  dying  hopes  and  dead  ideals, 
The  age's  richness  lives  within  your  sway, 
Joy  of  the  hour  and  splendor  of  the  past. 

SHAKESPEARE 

There's   splendor    in    such    homage!      Royal 

State 
In  praise  so  nobly  lavished — so  unselfed. 
What  have  I  to  return?    Only  this  truth — 
You  and  one  other  hold  my  heart — its  life 
To  damn  or  bless.     Its  only  sustenance 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  203 

To  give  and  serve.     Should  danger  menace 

you, 
I'd  snatch  you  hence.     Should  Hatred  lurk 

to  strike, 
It  must  strike  me  and  spend  its  venom  here, 
And  reach  you,  if  it  must,  a  stingless  thing! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Musingly.] 
I  and  one  other  hold  his  heart.     But  who 
Can  have  the  power  or  art  so  to  enslave 
A  King? 

SHAKESPEARE 

No  art,  but  power  infinite. 
An  orb  of  fire — so  full  of  light  and  heat 
That  ev'n  her  careless  rays  cause  whatsoe'er 
They  fall  upon  to  live  and  grow  and  bloom 
For  her  alone;  for  if  their  light  be  gone, 
Such  revel  of  life  once  known,  loss  would  be 

death. 
Fire  oft  without  light  like  those  dark  rays 
Of  our  known  sun,  which  stream  to  earth's 

deep  centre, 


204  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Dark,  lightless  rays,  yet  giving  life  to  all, 
Who  dwell  upon  Earth's  surface.     A  Flame 
of  Life! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

In    Heaven's    truth,    some    goddess    of    his 
dreams ! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Dreams       are       but — dreams!     .     .     .     My 
goddess  is — a  woman. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

This  is  no  sylvan  maid  nor  London  courtesan. 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  said  an  orb  of  fire.    Orbs  dwell  beyond  our 

ken 
In  the  bright  firmament  above,  to  which 
We  lift  our  aching  eyes. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Ah — raves  he  thus 
Of  some  court  lady  or  some  princess,  seen 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  205 

But  never  yet  approached?     This  well  may 

be. 
A  Poet's  fancy,  from  which  poems  spring. 
Dream  on  your  fill  and   let  me  share  your 

dream  ? 

SHAKESPEARE 

In  sleep  last  night  I  sailed  upon  the  sea 
And  felt  its  briny  spray  upon  my  cheek; 
Tasted    and    swallowed    it,    as    'twere    salt 

tears — 
A  woman's  tears — a  maddening,  bitter-sweet, 
And  I  am  water-wild  to-day,  and  so 
Let  me  alone! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Sweet  Will,  forgive,  I  pray. 
Love  should  share  all — ev'n  dreams! 


SHAKESPEARE 

This,  if  a  dream, 
Is  one  that  I  must  dream  alone — alone — 
To  its  fore-destined  waking;  for  we  wake, 


206  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Be  sure,  be  very  sure,  from  every  sleep, 
However  deep  and  sweet.and  long  it  be. 

[After  short  pause.] 
How  fares  your  princely  suit  to  Bridget  Man- 
ners? 

SOUTHAMPTON 

My  flower  of  dawn!     My  vestal  dove!    She's 

mine! 
By  every  timid,  virgin  sign.     And  soon 
I'll  woo  her  fresh  lips  to  confess  their  truth, 
And  take  their  first  love-blossom   with   my 

own. 
[Enter    a    messenger    from    the.    Globe 

Theatre.] 

MESSENGER 

[Obsequiously.] 
Your  pardon,  noble  Lord  and  Master  Will, 
That  I  do  so  intrude— 

SHAKESPEARE 

We  have  stout  hearts 
And  survive  the  intrusion.     Speak  its  cause. 
[The  messenger  bows  low.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  207 

MESSENGER 

The  Earl  of  Merton  at  whose  country  seat 
You  purposed  with  your  company  to  play 
A    fortnight   hence,    before   the   Queen   and 

Court, 
Has  sent  in  haste  to  say  the  play  must  be 
Next  week — Tis  so  the  Queen  herself  com- 
mands ; 
To-night  our  wagons  and  our  company 
Must  start,  and  this  too  sudden  going  hence 
For  the  Earl's  play  and  for  our  month-long 

tour 
Has  thrown  our  people  into  mad  confusion. 
They  wildly  run  about  like  hens  and  geese 
Into  whose  very  midst  a  fox  has  sprung. 
Your  steadying  presence  can  alone  compel 
Order  and  calmness  there. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Go— Tell  my  flock 
I  will  be  with  them  soon,  within  an  hour. 
Fly — so  their  minds  may  rest! 


208  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

[He    gives    the    Messenger  a  piece  of 
gold."] 

MESSENGER 

A  generous  heart! 
[Exit  Messenger.'] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

You  go — you  go  to-night? 

SHAKESPEARE 

For  but  a  month! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Forget  not  you  are  pledged  to  me  in  June. 
Then  falls  the  Masque  at  Tichfield,  where  I'll 

cause 
Such  Faery-Magic  to  bewitch  each  sense 
That  you  shall   dream  my   dream  the  only 

truth; 
One  mystic  night  not  linked  to  Fact  or  Time. 
I  have  your  'pledge?    You  will  be  with  me 

then? 
Upon  your  holy  word,  than  which  I  count 
Nothing  more  sacred. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  209 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Laughing.'] 

Over-earnest  heat 
Over  a  trifling  thing!     Am  I  not  pledged? 
[Enter  Florian  at  back  carrying  a  silver 
casket.     He  sings.  ] 


FLORIAN'S  SONG 


Mighty  Venus,  mightier  Love, 

Help  who  weareth  this  Disguise — 

Help  him,  Heavenly  Powers  above! 
Guard,  where  deadly  peril  lies. 

11 
Mask  his  face  and  mask  his  heart; 

Hide  him  from  her  dangerous  eyes; 
Shield  him,  lest  Love's  fiery  dart, 

Find  its  Billet  and — he  dies! 


210  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SOUTHAMPTON 

There  singing  goes  my  most  familiar  sprite. 
A  quaint  youth,  full  of  odd  imagination. 
I'll  question  and  he'll  something  strange  reply. 
Where  go  you  Florian  ?    Come  close  and  tell. 

FLORIAN 

To  place  this  casket  in  your  private  room. 
Thanking  your  Lordship  for  your  trust   in 

me — 
Yet    knowing    well   your   Lordship   fords   a 

stream 
As  well  upon  a  Jackass  as  a  Racer — 
Or  Peter  Dumpser  would  not  be  my  mate ! 


SOUTHAMPTON 

What  did  I  say?     Bring  me  the  casket  here. 

[Southampton  unlocks  the  casket,  while 

Florian  retires  to  some  distance  and 

waits.    Southampton     takes     out      a 

courtier's  costume  of  black  with  a  lace 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  211 

collar  and  the  jewelled  chain,  star  and 

blue  ribbon  of  the  order  of  the  Garter, 

also  a  black  mask.     To  Shakespeare.] 

I'll  whisper  in  your  ear  what  no  one  here 

May  know,  save  only  you  and  Florian. 

Hide    deep   my    jest.     The   evening    of   the 

Masque 
I  shall  be  garbed  in  this  mysterious  black, 
Wearing  th'  insignia  of  the  Star  and  Garter, 
And  further  closely  masked  in  black. 
There  are  three  Garters  living  now  in  Eng- 
land, 
And  all  will  come  to  my  June  revelry, 
And  thus  to  mystify  my  curious  guests 
Will  cause  confusion  and  amazing  haps; 
For  all  these  men  have  plots,  amours  and 
schemes. 
[Laughter    of    guests    approaching    is 
heard.] 

A    VOICE    WITHOUT 

[At  right.] 
Southampton — Come ! 


212  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SOUTHAMPTON" 

They  call,  and  I  must  go! 
[He  touches  the  costume  and  casket.] 
Go — place  these,  Florian,  in  my  cabinet, 
And  bring  me  here  the  key. 

[Voices  without,  at  right.'] 

Southampton — Come ! 

SOUTHAMPTON! 

[To  Shakespeare.] 
You  stay  an  hour? 

SHAKESPEARE 

One  hour  stol'n  from  time! 
[Exit  Southampton,  at  right.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Taking  jewels  and  costume  in  his  hands 
and    examining    them,   while   Florian 
still  waits  respectfully  at  a  little  dis- 
tance.] 
Ah! — What  delicious  tangles  would  ensue, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  213 

If  I  should  clothe  myself  that  Faery  night 
In  black,  the  twin  of  this — the  hat,  the  mask, 
The  semblance  of  these  gems,  this  chain — 

this  Star! 
I  pledge  the  genius  of  sweet  mystery 
That  so  I  will — no  matter  what  befall! 

[Florian    approaches    and    with    Shake- 
speare replaces  the  costume  and  jewels 
in  the  casket.  ] 
I'll  bear  this  with  you,  Florian;  lock  it  safe. 
Then  speed  you  with  the  key  back  to  the  Earl. 
[Exit  Shakespeare  and  Florian  with  the 
casket  by  a  low  door  at  left  that  opens 
directly  on  a  winding  stair. ] 
[Enter  Southampton  and  Bridget  Man- 
ners from  right. ] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

When  have  I  not  thus  loved  you,  Bridget? 

Dear, 
I  am  but  young  in  years,  but  old  in  feeling. 
My  love  for  you  has  not  been  yesterday 
Nor  yester  year — but  always — as  you  know. 


214  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Why,  then,  spend  words  on  what  my  life  has 
told? 

Give  the  sweet  answer  which  my  blood  fore- 
tells. 

BRIDGET 

Alas,  you  force  hard  truth  when  gentleness 
Is  what  I  fain  would  proffer  you! 

SOUTHAMPTON" 

Hard  truth? 

BRIDGET 

How  may  one  make  denial  sweet? 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Incredulously.]     Denial? 

BRIDGET 

I  am  not  meant  for  you,  nor  you  for  me. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

What  folly's  here? 

BRIDGET 

I  must  take  courage  to  speak! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  215 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[With  agitation.'] 
Wherefore  this — 

BRIDGET 

[Calmly.] 

You  are  too  volatile, 
Too  young,  and  something  too  fantastical 
For  me  to  trust  myself — my  life — to  you. 
While  that  my  Mother  lives,  all  might  go 

well; 
But  if  she  were  to  die,  [which  God  forefend,] 
I  doubt  your  carriage  of  yourself.     I  speak 
From  observation. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[With  violent  agitation  and  anger. J 

Ah!    From  observation! 
O  hideous  and  worldly-wise  admission! 
While  I  have  giv'n  you  all  I  had  of  love — 
Poured  out  my  heart's  whole  treasure  at  your 

feet, 
You  have  been   peering, — conning   o'er   my 
faults. 


2i6  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

What  are  you  ?    Why,  I've  hated  women  that 

do 
Such  things. 

BRIDGET 

And  you?  Are  you  perfection's  self 
That  none  can  find  a  fault  ?  I  have  been  told 
Of  women  you  have  cruelly  harmed  and  left. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

What  bitterness  and  hate  submerge  my  soul! 

BRIDGET 

If  that  your  love  so  quickly  turns  to  hate, 
Was  it  then  ever  love? 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Are  you  a  vixen 
Whom  I  thought  a  dove?     Oh, — I  have  been 
Deluded  by  my  wealth  of  tenderness 
For  you.     It  is  not  that  I  have  not  sinned — 
I  have.     But  all  such  sinning  is  so  much 
The  custom  of  the  only  world  I  know, 
That,  in  the  rash  and  headlong  heats  of  youth, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  217 

I  scarcely  knew  it  sinning,  till  I  looked 
Within  the  Heaven  of  your  purest  eyes, 
And  I  believed  that  their  divinity 
Would  quite  absolve  my  sins.     O  God!     O 
God! 

0  sweet,  first  flush  of  boyhood's  bloom  and 

hope! 

Gone,  gone — 

[He  weeps.     Then  after  a  short  pause 
speaks  again."] 
'Tis  done — forever  done — and  you — 

Be   sure   that   you   shall  cost  me   no   more 
tears — 

And  if  we  meet  the  morrow,  as  we  may, 

For  streams  that  long  have  flowed  in  paral- 
lels 

Are  not  too  quickly  parted,  you  shall  feel 

How  cold  the  night  has  been. 

BRIDGET 

[Calmly. ]     Such  coldness  holds 
Contagion — so  'tis  said.     Farewell,  my  Lord. 

1  seek  my  mother,  and  with  her,  my  home. 


2i8  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

[They  bow  ceremoniously.    Exit   Brid- 
get at  right.] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

No  one  shall  know  my  hurt, — not  even  Will — - 
Already  it  is  old  as  Death,  and  rots 
Within  my  flesh.     I'll  cut  the  fester  out, 
And  let  quick  Life  refill  the  empty  place 
With,  if  need  be,  a  myriad  living  loves! 
Give  me  a  woman  of  blood  and  fire  and  heart, 
However  rash  or  sinning,  so  she  feel! 
Yes — such  a  woman  as  draws  near  me  now! 
[Enter  Elisabeth  with  a  paper  in  her 

hand,  which  she  is  reading.    It  begins 

to    grow    dark.    Southampton   bows 

low  to  Elisabeth.'] 
Lady,   why  do  you   veil  your  eyes'   bright 

beams 
For  filthy  ink? 

ELISABETH 

[Crushing  the  paper  in  her  hand.] 

This  screed,  my  Lord,  is  trash! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  219 

SOUTHAMPTON 

I'll  wager  you  so  name  all  words  of  men. 

ELISABETH 

Indeed,  I  never  so  named  yours,  my  Lord. 
You  speak  me  few  and  write  me  none  at  all! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

I  would  not  have  them  crushed,  as  you  have 

crushed 
Those  writ  upon  the  paper  that  you  hold. 

ELISABETH 

Do  you  so  doubt  all  women?    It  is  sung 
By  every  bird  on  every  bush  that  maids 
Are   wisest  when   they   doubt  all  words   of 
yours. 
[Enter  Essex  from  right. ] 

ESSEX 

[To  Elisabeth,  with  sternness. ] 
Cousin,  I'll  see  you  home.     The  night  is  dark. 


220  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

ELISABETH 

[With  gaiety  and  sweetness."] 
Such  guardianship  were  chivalry  itself! 
But  I'm  companioned  here  by  Lady  Rutland, 
By  her  daughter  and  my  gentlewoman. 
I   will   go   hence   with   them.    My   carriage 
waits. 

ESSEX 

[Abruptly."] 
The  Gods  protect  you!    You  will  have  your 
way. 

[Exit  Essex  at  left.] 

[It  grows  darker.] 

[Enter  Herbert.  He  approaches  the 
table  where  there  are  flagons  of  wine 
and  glasses.  He  pours  and  drinks 
several  times.  He  then  goes  toward 
Elisabeth.] 

HERBERT 

[To  Elisabeth.] 
Where  may  I  find  your  Cousin  Essex,  Lady? 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  221 

ELISABETH 

[Mockingly.'] 
He  flees  our  gaiety,  and  with  a  frown 
Departed  by  that  door  a  moment  since. 

[While  Herbert  has  spoken  with  Elisa- 
beth, guests  have  entered  from  right 
with  pages,  who  light  them  across  the 
court  with  flambeaux.  The  pages 
then  place  the  flambeaux  in  sockets  at 
the  sides  of  the  court."} 

GUESTS 

[To  Southampton.] 
Good-night,  my  Lord! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Going  to  guests,  as  Herbert  speaks  to 
Elisabeth.] 

The  Stars  attend  your  path ! 
[To  Elisabeth.] 
Your  pardon,  Lady! 

[Exit  Southampton  with  guests  at  left. 
Lady  Rutland   and  Bridget  Manners 


222  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

cross   the   court  attended   by  a  page 
with  a  Hambeau.'] 

HERBERT 

[Who  has   been   again  drinking   at  the 
table,  to  Elisabeth.] 

I  would  speak  with  Essex. 

ELISABETH 

Be  quick  and  stay  him  in  the  outer  court. 

HERBERT 

My  thanks.    [With  exaggerated  courtesy."] 
Vouchsafe  that  I  attend  you 
Back  to  the  banquet-hall. 

ELISABETH 

[Aside,  with  raillery.'] 

Ah  me !    Ah  me ! 
A  woman  scarce  may  draw  her  breath  alone! 
[Exit  Elisabeth  and  Herbert  at  right.] 
[Enter  Shakespeare  from  the  door  open- 
ing on  the  stair  at  left.    He  holds  a 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  223 

paper  in  his  hand  on  which  he  is  writ" 
ing.  He  comes  forward  and  slowly 
crosses  terrace  to  the  right.  He  stops 
writing  and  the  lightly  held  paper  slips 
from  his  fingers  near  the  column  at 
right  front.    He  stops.~\ 

SHAKESPEARE 

Poor  Leaf!     Thou  doest  well  to  fall  to  earth! 
The  mighty  tree  that  trembling  bore  thy  life 
Is  still  forbid  by  Heaven  to  nourish  thee. 
My   Love   is   strength    unlicensed   and    fore- 
doomed 
To  pain.     Yet  since  by  its  illuming  fire 
I  live — along  this  flaming  pathway  must 
My  soul,  if  it  be  true  to  truth,  be  hurled. 
Great  God! — Why  should  I  waste  my  life  in 

words, 
When  all  the  force  that  moves  this  Universe 
Of  worlds  and  suns,  whirls  on  my  Soul  to 

act? 
Yet,    lest    Love-Madness    quite    destroy    my 
brain, 


224  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

I'll  give  my  passion  speech,  though  its  just 

fruit 
Be  balked  and  turned  to  tragedy  within. 
O  woe  as  old  as  Earth! 

[With  a  sudden  change. ] 

Yet  for  the  Love, 
The  Love,  let  God  be  praised! 

[Enter  from  right,  Elisabeth  reading  the 
paper  she  held  in  her  hand  before. 
She  has  thrown  a  long,  dark  cloak 
over  her  shoulders.] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Ah! 
[He  steps  behind  the  column  near  by. 
Elisabeth  sees  him  and,  starting,  drops 
the  paper  she  holds.    It  falls  near  the 
sonnet.] 

ELISABETH 

[With  mockery.]  Do  you  seek 
To  hide  from  me?  Am  I  so  dread  a  thing? 
So  to  be  feared? 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  225 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Motionless  in  the  shadow  of  the  column 
and  speaking  with  deep,  restrained 
feeling.  ] 

There  are  prisoners, 
Lady,  who  are  forbid  to  go  in  th'  sun. 

ELISABETH 

Who  is't  has  prisoned  you? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Myself — my  life. 

ELISABETH 

Why !    Life  is  full  of  open  doors. — Escape ! 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  have  no  right  nor  power  to  break  my  bonds. 

ELISABETH 

Still  behind  bars !     Shall  I  release  you  ?     See ! 
'Tis  simple  and  as  quick  as  breathing. 

[She  moves  swiftly  to  him  and,  taking 

his  hand,  draws  him  from  the  shadow 

of  the  column.'] 


226  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[As  she  takes  his  hand.~\ 

Ah! 

[He  stands  motionless  again  as  if  in  a 
trance.  Elisabeth  sees  the  paper  he 
has  dropped  and,  stooping,  picks  it  up. 
Shakespeare  makes  a  slight  movement 
to  stop  her  and  then  stands  as  be- 
fore.,] 

ELISABETH 

What's  here?     This  bears  my  name — there- 
fore 'tis  mine. 
[She  reads. ] 

To     my     dark     Heaven's     Star,     Elisabeth. 

"  Farewell,  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possess- 
ing, 

And  like  enough  thou  knowest  thy  estimate 

The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releas- 
ing; 

My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate. 

For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting? 
[She    reads    indistinctly.     Then  clearly 
again.~\ 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  227 

So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  mak- 
ing. 
Thus  have  I  had  thee,  as  a  dream  doth  flatter, 
In  sleep  a  king,  but,  waking,  no  such  matter." 

[Angrily,] 
Your  dream  has  carried  you  too  far!     Too 
far! 
[She  tears  the  sonnet  to  pieces.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Springing  forward  and  snatching  the 

torn  bits  of  paper  from  her  hand.] 
Women  are  all  alike !  O  stay  your  hand ! 
You  know  not  what  you  tear.     When  this 

proud  Hall, 
These  shafts  of  hardest  stone,  have  crumbled 

quite, 
And  all  the  pride  of  Times  to  come  is  dead 
And  buried  in  a  too-forgotten  past, 
These  words  will  live. 

[He  stoops  and  picks  up  the  paper  she. 

dropped.] 


228  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Let  me  see  what  you  read 
So  ardently  but  now  and  treasured,  though 
You  would  destroy  my  verse! 

[He  reads  from  a  small  printed  sheet.'] 
The  Never-present  Writer  to  the  Ever-pres- 
ent Reader: 
Be  it  known  to  the  ladies  of  this  realm  that 
[Here  he  reads  with  mocking,  ironical 
emphasis. ] 
"  The  power  of  cloth  of  gold  is  now  less 
powerful  than  a   month  agone.     An  insuffi- 
ciency of  pink  satin  causes  blue  satin,  with 
cuts  laced  with   silver,  to  hold  sway.     Side 
sleeves  lie  flatter  to  the  sight  and  skirts  have 
a  brightness  from  binding  with  gold  tinsel. 
Ruffs  have  become  a  very  refuse  unless  set 

with  Pearls " 

[He  flings  the  paper  on   the  table  and 
laughs  loudly.  ] 
Ha!     Ha!    We  look  and  look  in  women's 

eyes 
And  plunge  our  souls  into  their  liquid  deeps 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  229 

And   dream    the   heavenly   bath   holds   balm 

divine, 
Tinctured  with  wisdom  most  celestial, 
The  solvent  for  our  world-tormented  lives. 
We  look  behind  the  azure  or  the  gray — 
The  color  matters  not — the  eye  is  all — 
And  in  its  depths  discern — a  Fashion  Book! 
O — O — I  could  both  curse  and  weep  to  know 
For  what  slight  things  men  stake  immortal 

souls ! 

ELISABETH 

[With  ironical  approval.] 
Well  done!     Very  well  done!     Most  sharply 

said ! 
You  whet  your  cutting  wit  successfully 
On  yon  poor  sheet  and — me! 

[She  sits  on  the  circular  stone  bench  by 

the  stone  table  and  leans  on  it,  looking 

up  at  Shakespeare,  who  still  stands. ] 

But,  an  you  please, 

Have  you  observed  in  Pleasance  or  in  Hall, 


23o  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Where  these  same  men,  our  Lords  by  nature 

— wise 
And      strong, — of     course! — of     course! — 

Where  do  they  go? 
Straight  to  the  bird  who  has  the  brightest 

plumes, 
To  her  whose  wit  and  beauty  are  enhanced 
So  richly  and  so  sweetly  that  they  seem 
A  treasure  doubly  rare.     Ah,  Master  Will! 
Our  Spring  is  brief;  our  kingdom — Hearts 

of  men. 
You  curse  our  eyes — but  to  your  hearts,  our 

road 
Must  lie   through  yours — fickle  and  beauty- 
led! 
[With  a  sudden  change  to  gentle  earnest- 

ness.~\ 
But    you    are    angered — I    have    torn    your 

verse ! 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  angered?    Madam,  there  are  times  when 

men 
Use  anger  as  a  "sword  to  kill  a  pain 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  231 

Within    the   heart — as    sharp   as   death,    yet 
sweet 

As  honey  from  the  blooms  of  Paradise. 

[He  impetuously  takes  one  of  the  -flam- 
beaux and  places  it  near  the  table. 
He  sits  on  the  bench  and  takes  the 
fashion  paper  in  his  hand.] 

Hidden  within  these  paltry,  silly  words 

I'll  find  another  sonnet  which  will  hold 

My  answer  and  your  pardon. 

[He  bends  over  the  paper,  marking  the 
words.] 

ELISABETH 

[Taking  her  writing  tablet,  which  hangs 
from  her  chatelaine.] 

Sport  for  two! 
See — dreaming  here  for  many  a  day  there  lie 
Unwritten  missives  that  await  my  touch 
To  give  them  life. 

[She  examines  a  leaf  of  the  Tablet.] 

Here's  one  that  bears  your  name! 
[She     writes.     Peter     Dumpser     enters 


232  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

from  right,  extinguishes  two  of  the 
flambeaux,  crosses  the  court  and,  open- 
ing the  door  to  the  stair  that  leads  to 
Southampton's  room,  goes  up,  leaving 
the  door  ajar.  He  is  examining  a  let- 
ter which  he  holds.  Neither  Shake- 
speare nor  Elisabeth  observe  him.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Marking  the  words  in  the  paper,  speaks 

without  raising  his  head.] 
Now  picture  me,  a  man,  playing  the  child! 
But  in  this  hour  I  am  but  seventeen! 
Life,   pristine   and    unstained,   once   more    is 

mine. 

ELISABETH 

I've  won!     I've  won  the  race!     My  screed  is 
done! 

SHAKESPEARE 

We  meet  at  the  goal !     I  ended  ere  you  spoke. 
[He  draws  nearer  to  her  and  indicates 
with    his   pencil    the   words    he     has 
marked,  reading  as  he  does  so.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  233 

"  Ah,  from  what  power  hast  thou  this  power- 
ful might 
With  insufficiency  my  heart  to  sway? 
To  make  me  give  the  lie  to  my  true  sight, 
And  swear  that  brightness  doth  not  grace  the 

day? 
Whence  hast  thou  this  becoming  of  things  ill, 
That  in  the  very  refuse  of  thy  deeds 
There    is    such    strength    and    warranties    of 

skill, 
That,    in    my    mind,  thy   worst  all  best  ex- 
ceeds? " 

ELISABETH 

[Interrupting.'] 
I'll  have  no   more!     Call4  you   this  pardon? 

Tis 
A  stern  forgiveness !     I  am  gentler  far 
To  you  than  you  to  me. 

[She  reads  from  her  tablet.] 
"You  dazzle  my  wits.     You  confuse  my  un- 
derstanding.    You  destroy  my  ambitions,  yet 
fulfill    my   dreams.     Did   your    rank   in   this 
world  match  your  rank  as  a  poet,  there  would 


234  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

be  a  crown  on  your  head  and  I  the  first  to 
bow  to  it.  For  kings  or  principalities  cannot 
compel  my  homage—Only  to  Heaven  and 
Genius  can  I  kneel/' 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Agitated.] 

Your  words  are  flames 
That  mount  in  golden  wreathings  to  my  brain ! 
[A  page  enters  from  right  and  extin- 
guishes another  flambeau,  so  that  the 
court  is  lighted  only  by  the  moonlight 
and  the  flambeau  beside  the  table. 
The  page  goes  out  at  back.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Looks  about,  starts  up,  and  speaks  with 
still  more  agitation.] 

It  is  deep  night; 
See — every  guest  has  gone!     What  blasting 

shame 
To  me  if  Scandal's  mire  should   foul  your 
name! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  235 

Where    are   your  people?     I    will   take   you 
hence. 


ELISABETH 

[Laughing  lightly. ] 

My  carriage  and  my  gentlewoman  wait — 

I  will  go  soon!     Rest  here  and  let  me  speak. 

What  greater  shame  or  sp  than  Twere  to 
kill 

The  budding  moment  trembling  to  its  bloom? 

Who  knows  what  this  half-veiled,  half-dawn- 
ing hour 

Holds  for  us  both?    You  know  not  how  en- 
slaved 

And   smothered    women    are.     You    are    so 
great 

You  bring  me  air.  I  pray  you,  let  me 
breathe ! 
[She  sinks  back  luxuriously  in  the  seat 
and  looks  up  pleadingly  at  Shake- 
speare, He  has  stood  with  an  air  of 
impatient  anxiety.  At  her  last  words, 
he  makes  a  step  toward  her.~\ 


236  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

ELISABETH 

[Motioning  to  the  seat  beside  her.] 
Sit  here  and  let  us  talk  like  two  old  friends, 
Who  meet  upon  a  summer  afternoon. 

[Shakespeare  sits  on  the  bench.] 
Do  you  remember  when  almost  a  child, 
I  went  in  secret,  masked,  to  hear  your  plays, 
My  soul  then  fed  upon  your  mighty  words 
And  knew  their  greatness  of  itself — and  how, 
Without  the  Play-House  door  I  spoke  with 
you? 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  the  same  restrained  feeling. ] 
Do  I  remember! 

ELISABETH 

Ah!     Such  stolen  hours 
Give  life   to  leaden   days.     We'll   mark  this 

one 
By  speaking  only  truth — and  swiftly  reach 
A  height  we  else  might  wait  long  years  to 
gain. 
[A  clock  without  strikes  ten.~\ 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  237 

SHAKESPEARE 

My  hour  stolen  from  time  is  at  an  end! 

A  million  life-times  could  not  tell  the  truth, 

That  bursts  my  heart! 

ELISABETH 

[Without  noticing  his  agitation.] 
I  often  marvel  how  that  God  has  made, 
A    country   boy — for    such    you    must    have 

been, 
So    greater    than    our    greatest    here — speak 

truth- 
Do  you  not  weary  of  the  life  we  lead, 
Shut  in  this  town,  playing  the  games  of  self, 
And  pride  and  gain  and  love?     Do  you  not 

long 
For  the  sweet  breath  of  hills  and  fields  and 

flowers — 
The  forest  deeps — the  simple  folk  you  left? 

SHAKESPEARE 

It  is  not  that  I  love  not  what  I  left — • 


238  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

But  that  old  life  fell  from  me  like  a  cloak 
When  once  the  towers  of  London  smote  my 

eyes, 
And  all  her  mighty  life  beat  at  my  heart; 
And  now  her  noble  blood  flows  in  my  veins, 
And  I  am  one  with  all  her  great  adventure. 

ELISABETH 

Is't  true  that  you  are  married? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Fast  as  church  law 
And  as  man's  law  can  bind  me. 

ELISABETH 

And  you  love — 
Your  wife? 

SHAKESPEARE 

{Starting  from  the  bench,  and  speaking 
with  agitation.~\ 

Can  God  forgive  me  if  I  lie 
About  my  truth  of  truths?    Will  God  for- 
give me 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  239 

If  I  speak  the  truth  and  free  my  soul 

From  this  relentless  flame  turned  inward  to 

Destroy  me? 

[He  withdraws  a  few  steps  and  puts  his 
hand  on  his  heart  looking  directly  into 
Elisabeth's  eyes.] 

I  love  you 

[Elisabeth  draws  back  as  if  startled  but 
returns  Shakespeare's  look  as  if  fas- 
cinated.'] 

THE  VOICE  OF  ESSEX 

[Just  without  at  left.] 

Go  tell  the  Earl 
Of  Southampton  I  wait  him  in  the  court. 

A  PAGE 

[Without  at  left] 
Good,  my  Lord. 

ELISABETH 

[Springing  from  her  seat  and  clinging  to 
Shakespeare  with  fright.] 


240  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

My  Cousin  Essex  comes! 
His  rage  would  crush  me  if  he  finds  me  here — 
I  thought  him  gone  an  hour  since.     Hide  me! 

THE   VOICE   OF   HERBERT 

[Without  at  right.] 
Is  the  Earl  within? 

Go  seek  him. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Taking  Elisabeth's  hand  and  with  his 
other  hand  seising  the  flambeau.'] 

Come! 

[He  quickly  draws  her  across  the  court 
and  opens  the  door  on  the  stair  and 
draws  her  after  him,  closing  the  door 
and  leaving  the  stage  in  darkness  as 
Essex  and  Herbert  enter  from  opposite 
sides. ] 


ACT   III 

SCENE    II 

[The  scene  instantly  changes  to  a  small, 
panelled  room  lighted  by  a  high  standing  lamp. 
A  low  door  at  left.  Under  a  massive  carved 
table  Florian  and  Peter  Dumpser  are  strug- 
gling and  quarreling  over  a  letter  which  Peter 
holds.  On  the  table  stands  the  silver  casket 
which  Florian  carried,  and  an  antique  vase 
filled  with  roses.  Also  Hagons  of  wine  and 
goblets,  a  dish  of  fruit,  and  other  viands. 
Swords  and  musical  instruments  and  two  or 
three  portraits  of  beautiful  women  hang  on 
the  walls.  ~\ 

FLORIAN 

[Striking  Peter. ~\ 
O  Treacherous  Fox!    You  boast  of  your 
truth  and  virtue  and  steal  my  Lord's  letters. 
Where  is  your  consistency? 
241 


242  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

PETER 

The  letter  bears  my  name. 

FLORIAtf 

At  last  a  wholesome  lie!  I  have  hopes  of 
his  honesty.  [He  snatches  the  letter  from 
Peter,  and  reads  the  inscription.']  "  For  my 
Lord  Southampton."  You  little  Viper!  [He 
strikes  him  again  while  Peter  whines. ]  If  you 
were  any  bigger  than  a  Whisper  I  should  fight 
you  to  an  end! 

f  The  door  at  left  opens  and  Shakespeare 
stands  in  the  entrance,  bearing  the 
flambeau.  Behind  him  Elisabeth  Ver- 
non is  seen.~\ 

SHAKESPEARE 

[To  Elisabeth,  as  he  sees  the  pages.] 
Wait  without,  I*  pray  you,  while  I  dismiss 
these  inopportune  servants. 

ELISABETH 

[With  gaiety,  drawing  back  into  the 
shadow.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  243 

I  am  invisible! 

{Shakespeare  shuts  the  door.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Roughly.] 
Out — both  of  you !     When  Lord  Southamp- 
ton learns  that  you  fight  in  his  cabinet  he  will 
give  you  the  streets  for  your  brawls. 

[Florian  and  Peter  crawl  from  under  the 
table.] 

FLORIAN 

Please  you,  Master  Shakespeare,  I  brought 
hither  my  Lord's  casket  as  you  bade  me  and 
found  Peter  Dumpser  stealing  my  Lord's 
letters. 

SHAKESPEARE 

\ln  a  hushed  tone  of  surprise.] 
Peter  Dumpser! 

FLORIAN 

[Giving  the  letter  to  Shakespeare.] 
Read  the  inscription,  Master  Shakespeare. 
Ah,  this  Field  Lily,  Pierre,  is  a  little  marble 
tomb  of  vice ! 


244  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Taking  the  letter  reads,  aloud. ,] 
"  For  my  Lord  of  Southampton  in  his  house 
in  Holborn  in  London.  For  his  page  Peter 
Dumpser."  The  letter  is  for  Peter,  Florian. 
Go  you  down  the  stair.  If  you  are  small 
enough  and  still  enough,  you  may  yet  find 
standing  room  in  this  house.  And  as  you 
pass  out,  you  see  and  hear  nothing.  Do  you 
understand  my  English?  [He  pushes  the  un- 
willing Florian  out  and  past  the  waiting  Elis- 
abeth.'] 

[To  Elisabeth.] 
Your  patience  yet  a  moment,  Lady. 

[He  again  shuts  the  door  and  returns  to 
Peter.] 
Whence  do  you  come? 

PETER 

From  Stratford,  Sir. 

SHAKESPEARE 

'[In  the  same  hushed   tone   of  surprise.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  245 

Thus  do  ghosts  stand  in  our  path, — to  warn 
us  of  another  world  than  this  in  which  we 
live! 

PETER 

I  knew  you,  Master  Will,  when  I  was  but 
a  Patch,  but  I  feared  to  speak  with  you  now 
that  you  are  become  so  great  a  man. 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Grasping  his  hand.~\ 
Country-born,  and  sunburned  even  as  you, 
Peter !     But  you  must  follow  your  yoke-fellow 
and  without  delay.    I'll  speak  you  again. 

PETER 

My  letter,  Sir? 

[Shakespeare  gives  him  the  letter.  Peter 

continues.] 

O,  Master  Will!    I  cannot  read  more  than 

my  own  name.     I  dare  not  go  to  Florian  for 

the  spelling  out  of  my  letter,  and  the  other 

pages  gibe  at  me.     This  is  from  my  mother,  I 


246  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

know.     The  first  word  I  have  had  from  her. 
Read  it  me,  good  Master  Will. 

[He  holds  the  open  letter  to  Shakespeare, 
who  half -unwillingly  takes  it.~\ 

PETER 

[Whining.'] 
'Tis  from  my  mother! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Good-humoredly.] 

Take  your  pap,  then,  while  Queens  wait. 
[He  reads.]     "  To  my  much  loved  son  Peter. 

The  Fever  has  come  to  Stratford,  though 
not  so  fierce  as  when  my  mother  was  young. 
I  fell  ill  of  it  and  quaked  with  fear,  thinking 
to  die  without  sight  of  you.  Many  have  had 
the  Fever  and  'tis  said  Anne  Shakespeare,  that 
was  Anne  Hathaway,  is  one  and  hath  died  a 
week  since.  Her  children  are  with  her  mother 
at  Shottery  and  are  well.  I  am  mending  but 
I  would  see  you,  Peter,  for  I  cannot  eat  nor 
sleep  for  lacking  sight  of  you.     Come  home, 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  247 

Peter,  for  a  space.     Ask  my  Lord  to  spare  you 
to  your  mother  who  is  in  such  need  of  you." 
[After  a  long  pause,  Shakespeare  speaks 
with  awe.] 
Is  Anne   dead?     Can   that   viyid  life   be 
ended?     That   vital    tongue    be    still?     God 
forgive  my  sins!     I  should  have  gone  home 
before.     .      .      .     There  will  be  years  before 
this  is  a  truth  to  me. 

PETER 

O,  Master  Shakespeare,  will  my  Lord  of 
Southampton  let  me  go  to  my  mother? 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  will  answer  to  Lord  Southampton  for 
you.  Go  to  Stratford  as  speedily  as  may  be. 
Here  is  gold  for  your  journey.  \He  gives 
him  a  purse.] 

PETER 

[Peeping  into  the  purse.] 
Never  saw  I  so  much  gold  before.     I  can 
never  spend  it ! 


248  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

Stay  beside  your  mother  for  a  fortnight 
and  then  come  to  my  Lord  Southampton's 
seat  in  Titchfield.  Look  at  me.  Go  to  the 
house  of  Dame  Hathaway  in  Shottery — and 
to  the  house  of  Anne  Shakespeare  in  Strat- 
ford and  bring  me  yourself  news  of — this 
fever.  I  write  and  go  myself  but  I  wish  more 
certain  and  speedy  news  than  the  Queen's 
commands  now  permit.    Do  you  understand? 

PETER 

I  will  do  your  bidding,  Master  Will,  and 
I  will  bring  tidings  to  Titchfield — if  I  am  not 
struck  by  the  fever  myself,  which  the  Angels 
fore  fend ! 

[Exit  Peter.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[At  door.    To  Elisabeth  with  sternness.] 
Enter. 

[Elisabeth  enters.     She  looks  about  and 
claps  her  hands  and  laughs. ] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  249 

Tis  Southampton's  cabinet! 
An  adventure  truly ! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Do  you  trust 
Yourself  alone  with  me? 

ELISABETH 

You  are  a  gentleman. 

SHAKESPEARE 

I  am  a  man.     And  one  that  never  knew 
Himself  to  be  a  man  until  this  hour. 

ELISABETH 

[With  an  attempt  at  lightness. ,] 
Your  eyes  are  wild.     I  almost  fear  you  now. 

[With  gravity. ] 
And  God  forgot  almost  all  kinds  of  fear 
When  He  made  me.    Indeed  I  do  not  boast! 

SHAKESPEARE 

You  asked  me  but  a  moment  since, 
To  sit  and  talk  like  two   old   friends,   who 
meet 


250  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Upon  a  summer  afternoon.     And  now, 
I  bid  you  stay  and  speak  with  me — not  like 
Old    friends    but    like,    (for   imagery),    two 

flames 
That  tremble  upward,  ever  drawn  more  near 
By  very  virtue  of  their  light  and  fire. 
Yearning  to  fuse  in  one  fierce  holocaust 
Not  caring  if  a  world  be  thus  consumed. 

[He  leads  her  to  a  seat  near  the  table. 
She  sits.  He  stands  near  her,  speak- 
ing rapidly. ,] 

I  told  you  in  the  court  below  I  had 

A  wife,     (slowly)     I  had  a  wife — 'tis  said 

she's  dead     .     .     . 
If  I   should   come  to  you   quite    free — with 

hands 
As  clean  as  shriven  love  could  make  them, 

with 
A  name  quite  low — Yet  in  the  years  to  come 
With  somewhat  of   a  light   upon   it — Could 

you 
Crowned,  golden,  nimbus-like  with  love — with 

love! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  251 

Such  love  as  I  give  you, — Could  you   then 

dream 
Of  loving  too?     Of  drinking  of  the  wine 
That  Life  pours  out  but  once — the  wine  of 

Love. 

ELISABETH 

[With  light  gaiety.] 
Without  such  dreams  how  very  dull  and  tame 
How  very  flat  this  life  of  ours  would  be! 

SHAKESPEARE 

You  jest.     You  know  not  how  such  jesting 
stabs ! 

ELISABETH 

Is  it  not  wisest  thus  to  jest  with  the 
Impossible  ? 

SHAKESPEARE 

Enough.     I  have  my  sentence. 
[He  goes  quickly  toward  the  door.] 

ELISABETH 

[Rising  and  following  him,  lays  her  hand 
on  his  arm.] 


252  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Master  Will!     [Shakespeare  returns.']     I  an- 
swered not  the  truth ! 


SHAKESPEARE 

Tigress!     All     glowing    hues — all     softened 

curves, 
In  motion  how  alluring  your  perfection! 
And  yet  as  you  thus  clutch  again  your  prey 
This  laceration 

[He  touches  his  heart] 

Speaks  your  touch  to  be 
That  of  the  jungle  and  the  hidden  lair. 

ELISABETH 

[Sits  and  looks  up  at  him  with  a  sudden 
air  of  girlish  softness  and  sweetness.'] 
None  ever  spoke  such  cruel  words  to  me! 
Such  needless,  cruel  words.     God's  truth  it  is 
I  love  you,  Master  Will. 

[Shakespeare  snatches  the  petals  from 
one  of  the  roses  and  flings  them  over 
her.  They  fall  on  her  head  and  shoul- 
ders in  a  rosy  shower.] 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE 


253 


SHAKESPEARE 

This  joy's  too  great! 
This  flaming  whirl  within  my  brain  and  heart 
Blurs  all  before  me.  Let  me  see  your  eyes. 
{He  sits  near  her,  looking  into  her  eyes 
as  she  looks  up  at  hint.] 
Such  lakes  of  limpid  candour!  With  a  light 
That  blinds  me.  Is't  for  me  or  for  the  love 
Of  love  and  life?  Elisabeth — Could  you, 
A  Star,  so  drop  from  out  your  sphere  to  me? 

ELISABETH 

Stars   drop   through   space  and   none  know 

where  they  fall. 
Should  I  so  fall,  T' would  be  to  find  myself 
Throned  in  another  Heaven  of  your  love. 

SHAKESPEARE 

{With  fiery  exaltation.'] 
Your  words  are  treasures  sought  and  bought 

with  blood 
And  travail  of  men's  souls,  for  ages  past; 
Like  argosies  of  spoils  from  fabled  lands — 


254  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

And  I  am  glad  of  them,  as  one  who  finds 
His  Golden  Fleece  after  long  quest  and  war. 

[He  takes  her  hands  in  his.] 
Can  such  eyes  lie?     Can  the  sweet,  madding 

touch 
Of  these  delicious  hands  be  false? 
I'll  not  believe  it,  though  my  heart  cries  out 
In  blackest  doubt  that  flings  me  down  to  hell. 

[He  speaks  with  impassioned  entreaty."] 
Is't  true  that  you  love  me?     Search  well  your 
heart. 

ELISABETH  ' 

[With  the  same  girlish  candor.] 
There's  nothing  high  in  me — and  yet  I  love 
The  heights.     You  lift  me  to  them! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  passionate  impatience.] 

That's  not  love. 

ELISABETH 

Among  the  men  who  court  me  there's  not  one 
With  whom  my  life  could  know  a  moment's 
peace.    r 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  255 

You  are  so  noble — and  I  trust  you  so! 
When  men  are  matched  with  men— not  names 

or  lands — 
In  all  our  England,  who  so  great  as  you? 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Completely  softened,  speaks  brokenly."] 
An     unknown,     country     lad — a     scribbling 

youth 
Who  crawled   foot-sore  and  hungry  London 

streets, 
With  but  the  visions  in  his  plays  for  friends 
And  retinue.     Can  you  love  such  an  one? 

ELISABETH 

Romance  is  in  it! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Trifle  not— the  truth! 

ELISABETH 

Indeed  I  love  you — or — I  know  not  love! 
I  should  be  dull  if  I  loved  not  such  greatness! 
[Shakespeare  draws  her  to  him.'] 


256  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

Seal  then  your  words  in  spirit  and  in  touch 
That  do  not  lie. 

[He  kisses   her.    A  long  kiss  on  her  lips. 
She  repulses  him  angrily. ] 

Now  know  that  you  are  mine. 
Mine  in  the  heart's  quick  beat.     Mine  in  the 
life! 

ELISABETH 

[With  anger.'] 
You  dare  too  far ! 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Flinging  himself  on  his  knees  at  her  feet.] 

If  I  too  fiercely  crushed 

Those  living  roses  of  your  lips  with  mine — 

Too  deeply  drained  their  honey,  let  my  plea 

For  your  forgiveness  be  a  life-long  thirst. 

[Elisabeth,   half   irresolutely,    holds   out 

her  hand.    He  kisses  it  reverently  and, 

rising,  stands  at  a  little  distance.     The 

door  is  suddenly  opened,  and  South- 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  257 

ampton  enters.  He  stands  in  motion- 
less astonishment  as  he  sees  Elisabeth 
and  Shakespeare."] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[To  Elisabeth,  with  irony. ] 
Lady — you  strangely  honor  my  poor  room! 
[To  Shakespeare,  with  still  more  biting 
irony. ] 
A  tryst  well-chosen — if  surprising!     But, 
You    might    have    barred   the   door   and    so 

averted 
My  rash  and  most  inopportune  intrusion! 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Advancing    impetuously    toward    him.] 
This   hour's   too    strangely    bright,    even    in 

Death's  awe, 
For  blindness.  Southampton  I  hither  brought 
Lady  Elisabeth — untowardly 
Belated  in  the  court.     Guests  came  and  went 
And    shelter    from    their    curious    eyes    was. 

meet. 


258  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[His  suspicion  entirely  disarmed.] 
Well  done! 

SHAKESPEARE 

When  all  below  at  last  have  gone 
Safely  attend  her  home.     For  I  must  go. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

My  life  for  her  protection! 

SHAKESPEARE 

\_Going  to  him,  takes  his  hand  and  speaks 

with  solemnity.] 

Thus  with  you 
I  leave  the  dearest  Treasure  of  my  life. 
My   radiant    Pearl    of   price — long   travailed 

for. 
For  in  this  hour  it  is  not  given  to  me 
To  stay  and  love  my  Pearl.     Nor  beat  my 

breast 
And  deep  bemoan  my  dead — once  close — so 

close 
To  mine  own  life!     My  part  is  not  to  wait — 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  259 

To  love — or  to  reflect.     But  to  watch  life 
As    it   flies   past — wrest    from   its    changing 

mask 
Its  secrets  dark  or  ravishingly  bright, 
And  then   turn   all   to   Beauty   where — look 

well! 
You'll   find   the  mirror  of  your  own  life's 

Pageantry. 
Why  do  I  thus?    "(With  a  half  smiling,  al- 
most apologetic  manner)" 

I  can  do  nothing  else! 
I'm  not  a  peasant — nor  a  courtier — 
In  the  Exchange  how  weary  I  should  grow! 
And  then — all  turns  to  gold  for  those  I  love 
Who  wait  at  home.     I  can  do  nothing  else! 

[With  awe  and  solemnity. ,] 
They  say  my  wife  is  gone!     I  cannot  stop 
Th'  immutable  stern  steps  of  destiny. 
I  know  my  children  safe — Now  I  must  go 
Fulfil  the  Queen's  command — for  that  is  in 
The  path  that  I  can  tread  and  stumble  not. 
And    then    to    Stratford.     But— {he    takes 
Elisabeth's  hand) 


26o  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

Here  is  my  Love. 
My  love  incarnated — whom  I  must  leave — 
To  whom  I  must  return — or  else — I  die ! 
For  to  reach  Stratford  from  the  Earl's, 
Where  I  must  play  next   week   before   the 

Queen, 
I  must  pass  Titchfield.    There  to  taste  again 
As  I  do  now — a  life  transcending  Life, 
Transcending  even  Death. 
[To  Southampton."} 

So  guard  my  Love — 
My    heart's    own    friend — whose    loyalty    I 

trust 
More  than  I  trust  my  own. 

[Elisabeth  and  Southampton  have  lis- 
tened  and  watched  Shakespeare  with 
silent  wonder.  A  noise  of  men's 
voices,  speaking  loudly,  is  heard  in  the 
passage  outside  the  door.  Southamp- 
ton springs  to  bolt  it,  but  it  is  Hung 
open  and  Herbert  and  Essex  enter, 
Herbert  laughing  loudly.  As  they 
enter,  Shakespeare  tears  the  short  black 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  261 

velvet  coat  from  his  shoulders,   and 
gives  it  to  Elisabeth.'] 

Quick — veil  yourself! 

[Elisabeth  wraps  the  cloak  around  her 

head  like  a  hood  and  veils  her  face 

with  it,  withdrawing  against  the  wall.] 

ESSEX 

[Angrily.] 
Southampton!     Wanton  as  ever! 

HERBERT 

[Laughing  loudly  and  recklessly.] 
Ah!  ha!  Southampton!  We  wait  in  the 
court  for  your  conference  on  State  matters — 
while  you  and  Will  Shakespeare  are  revelling 
here!  [Going  to  the  table.]  By  Phoebus! 
Wine — a  banquet — and  a  Lady!  You  might 
have  bidden  us.  [He  pours  out  two  glasses  of 
wine  and  taking  one  goes  toward  Elisabeth, 
staggering  slightly.]  Your  good  health,  Fair 
One! 

[Elisabeth  shrinks  back  against  the  wall.] 
At  least  I  assume  you  to  be  fair! 


262  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

ESSEX 

[With  grim  humor. ] 
A  rash  assumption.     Else,  why  the  hood  ? 

HERBERT 

Unveil,  sweetest,  and  give  his  doubt  the  lie. 

ESSEX 

Since  ladies  of  the  court,  or  shy  maidens, 
do  not  frequent  Southampton's  room  at  night, 
why  this  reserve? 

HERBERT 

[Drawing  close   to   Elisabeth   attempts, 
with  drunken  assurance,  to  snatch  the 
cloak  from  her  head.~\ 
Tantalize  me  no  longer — mysterious  Beauty! 

[During  this  scene,  Southampton  has 
betrayed  great  uneasiness.  Shake- 
speare has  remained  motionless  near 
Elisabeth,  intently  listening  to  and 
watching    Herbert    and     Essex.    As 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  263 

Herbert  touches  the  cloak  wrapped 
about  Elisabeth's  head,  he  strikes  his 
hand  up  and  stands  between  Herbert 
and  Elisabeth,  at  the  same  time  burst- 
ing into  a  peal  of  laughter.] 

SHAKESPEARfl 

Your  pardon  Herbert,  but  the  situation  is 
laughable  as  you  will  confess! 

[The  great  szveetness  of  his  manner,  and 
his  laughter  disarms  Herbert's  anger 
and  he   listens   as  Shakespeare  con- 
tinues.'] 
As  Essex  truly  says,  ladies  of  the  court,  or 
young  girls  are  not  found  in  Southampton's 
room  at  night ! 

HERBERT 

[Loudly  echoing  his  laugh.]  Well  said! 
[To  Southampton  angrily.]  Then  again,  why 
the  veil?  Speak  to  your  Incognita,  Southamp- 
ton, and  bid  her  not  spoil  sport  with  such 
mock  mystery.  Do  your  part!  Come 
Laggard ! 


264  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

[He  advances  toward  Southampton  with 
an  air  of  tipsy  violence, ,] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Gently  resisting  his  advance.]  But  listen! 
It  is  amusing.  A  novel  predicament!  Some 
say  Southampton's  fault  is  youth  and  wan- 
tonness !  Sure  he  has  grace  and  gentle  sport, 
as  becomes  the  young!  Were  he  a  wolf  he 
might  betray  a  lamb!  But  even  when  faults 
resort  to  him  they  become  graces!  As 
now — !  This — (He  indicates  Elisabeth)  may 
be  some  imprudent  Lady  of  another  world 
than  the  court — possibly,  alas !  of  my  world — 
the  theatre!  For  through  an  unguarded  life 
their  manners  perforce  grow  careless.  What 
think  you  Herbert? 

HERBERT 

[With  an  air  of  wisdom,] 
I  think  it  likely. 

SHAKESPEARE 

And  Southampton — being  no  wolf — would 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  265 

spare   the   crimsoning  of   this  lamb's   white 
wool. 

HERBERT 

[With  irritation.'] 
Why   seek   to   shelter   Southampton,   who 
blushes  not  at  all! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Faith !  I  love  him  in  such  sort  that  his  good 
report  is  mine  also! 

HERBERT 

[Again  turning  toward  Elisabeth.]  Why 
not  speak  for  yourself,  Sweet  Silence?  Are 
you  to  be  kept  hidden  even  against  your  own 
will?  I'll  soon  end  that!  [He  again  tries 
to  pass  Shakespeare,  staggering  and  almost 
falling.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Interposing  again  between  them.]  Would 
you  not  feel  pity  if  I  were  to  let  you  hear  a 
tale  of  this  encounter?  It  is  a  Romance  in 
one  sweet-scented  page.  [Herbert  stops  and 
listens.]    What  if  Southampton  and  this  lady 


266  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

have  but  looked!  But  her  eyes  have  magic 
and  they  draw  him  as'  by  a  spell.  What 
if  they  had  but  spoken — but  with  tenderness 
rising  in  their  hearts,  drawn  upward  by  his 
eyes  that  have  the  sun's  fire  in  them.  What  if 
they  but  talked  in  the  court  when  steps  came 
near.  Ever-and-ever-more-near.  [He  ad- 
vances slowly  and  mysteriously  toward  Her- 
bert.] A  man's  heavy  step!  He  approaches 
them — nearer — they  see  him — dark,  menacing, 
and  in  his  hand  the  glint  of  steel!  [With 
growing  power. ~\  Is  it  her  husband?  She 
must  be  saved — saved  at  any  hazard !  South- 
ampton springs  forward — catches  him  by  the 
throat!  [With  a  tremendous  outburst.  ] 
Thus! 

[Shakespeare  makes  a  swift  dart  at  Her- 
bert and  catches  him  by  the  throat. 
Elisabeth  shrieks.  Herbert  struggles 
and  curses."] 

HERBERT 

Ruffian!     Dastard!     Unloose  me! 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  267 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Releasing  him,  bursts  into  gay  laughter. ] 
Forgive  me,  Herbert!  I  am  a  player  and 
must  ever  play  at  life!  And  when  the  mood 
is  on — my  word,  I  know  not  what  madness 
I  do !    Your  pardon ! 

HERBERT 

[Bewildered  and  credulous.']  Yes — Yes! 
My  pardon  willingly  and  here's  my  hand. 

ESSEX 

[Applauding. 1  By  Heaven!  Quite  a 
comedy,  and  well-played! 

HERBERT 

[With  sudden  irritation.'] 
S'death!  But  your  hands  clutched  me! 
[With  sudden  anger.]  You  hound,  by  what 
right  do  you  thwart  the  pleasure  of  gentlemen  ? 
Go  back  to  your  Bear  Garden!  [To  Elisa- 
beth.] And  you!  So — So — Thus  do  our 
eyes  drink  your  beauty. 

[He  eludes  Shakespeare  by  a  swift  move- 


268  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

ment  and  snatches  the  cloak  from 
Elisabeth's  head.  At  the  same  instant 
Shakespeare  overturns  the  lamp  which 
falls  to  the  ground  with  a  crash  and  is 
extinguished.  The  stage  is  dark.  As 
the  lamp  crashes,  Elisabeth  screams 
again.    Then  all  stand  silent.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Standing  before  Elisabeth  in  the  darkness.] 
Truth,  Gentlemen,  it  is  I,  not  this  lady  or 
Southampton  whose  blushes  need  shelter,  and 
see  how  kindly  has  the  darkness  done  it  for 
me !  For — the  truth  must  out — I  have  a  fancy 
for  her  myself!  'Tis  folly  sure  with  South- 
ampton in  the  lists!  What  fortune  can  my 
passion  have  against  him  whose  bosom  is  en- 
deared zvith  all  hearts!  I — who  am  in  dis- 
grace with  fortune  and  men's  eyes.  I — who 
to  behold  desert  am  but  a  beggar  born,  forced 
to  make  myself  a  motley  to  the  view.  He  has 
but  to  cast  his  eyes  earthward  and  there's  a 
woman  at  his  feet!     [With  increasing  pas- 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  269 

sion."]  While  I  am  alone — and  she  is  to  my 
thoughts  as  food  to  life.  Gentlemen,  at  birth 
the  world  was  given  to  you,  but  her  love  is 
better  than  high  birth  to  me.  I  call  for 
nothing  in  the  Universe  save  her,  my  Rose. 
And  so — your  indulgence.  Be  she  of  the 
Theatre,  of  the  Markets,  or  even  some  Night 
Wanderer  of  the  streets,  'tis  she  I  love — and 
by  your  own  sacred  loves,  hidden  in  your 
hearts,  I  conjure  you,  spare  mine! 

[All  have  listened  silently  as  Shakespeare 
speaks.  As  he  ceases,  Herbert  sets  on 
the  table  the  still  filled  wine  glass  he 
has  held.  He  lays  his  hand  on  Essex's 
arm  and  together  they  silently  go  out 
of  the  room  and  down  the  stair.  The 
setting  moon  now  shines  directly  into 
the  room,  so  that  Shakespeare,  Elisa- 
beth and  Southampton  and  the  whole 
room  are  clearly  seen.  Shakespeare 
continues  to  speak,  but  this  time  much 
more  quietly  and  directly  to  Southamp- 
ton and  Elisabeth. ,] 


270  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Thus  do  we  Mummers  rend  the  veil  from 
our  own  hearts,  that  the  sleeping  nobleness  in 
others  may  be  wakened.  And,  so  that  end  is 
served,  it  is  well  done.  Now  may  Dew  from 
Heaven  descend  upon  you  both  and  keep  you 
stainless  and  refreshed.  [He  takes  their  hands 
in  his.]  Be  true.  Be  true.  Not  with  the 
truth  that  says  "I'm  true"  but  winks,  half- 
looks,  and  with  an  eyelid's  lift  betrays  a  soul 
and  splits  a  mighty  heart;  but  with  the  truth 
that  says — "  Thou  shalt  be  safe  and  thy  love 
honored,  though  my  name  be  stained  and 
blotted  from  men's  minds;" — and  lives  it 
out  until  the  death  of  Time.  Farewell !  Fare- 
well! At  Titchfield  on  the  6th  of  June  I  shall 
be  with  you.  Spurred  by  such  Friendship  and 
such  Love,  to  reach  a  height,  as  man  among 
my  fellow-men  that  this  our  world  has  never 
known  before.  And — who  can  gainsay  my 
word? — may  never  know  again.  [To  South- 
ampton.'] When  all  your  guests  are  gone, 
safely  attend  her  home.  Forget  not.  And 
now  farewell,  my  dearest  Ones. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  271 

[He  presses  Southampton's  hand  against 
his  heart  with  both  his  and  abruptly 
bending  low  kisses  Elisabeth's  hand, 
and  goes  toward  the  door.  Exit  Shake- 
speare, closing  the  door.  Southampton 
replaces  the  lamp  and  striking  a  light 
relights  it.  Elisabeth  has  seated  her- 
self by  the  table.  Southampton  goes 
to  her  and  speaks,  leaning  on  the  table.'] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[In  a  hard,  half  angry  tone.'] 
Speak  truth.     Is  he  mad? 

ELISABETH 

But  partly  so. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Surely  it  is  madness.     How  very  strange 
he  is  to-night! 

ELISABETH 

[Striving  to  speak  lightly. ] 
So  poets  should  be.     Is  poetry  the  daily  fruit 
of  most  men's  lives? 


272  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SOUTHAMPTON 

This  hour's  full  of  torment  for  me.     Will 
you  speak  truth  if  I  do  question  you? 

ELISABETH 

[Looking  unflinchingly  in  his  eyes.]     I  will. 

SOUTHAMPTON* 

Is  he — [he  stops  abruptly.]     He  bade  me 
take  you  safely  home. 

ELISABETH 

Hark! 

[She  goes  quickly  to  the  door  and  opens 
it.  Loud  voices  and  laughter  from 
the  Court  belozv  and  footsteps  cross- 
ing it  are  heard.  She  returns  to  her 
seat  by  the  table.  She  sinks  into  it 
and  leans  back  with  the  same  aban- 
donment that  she  had  shown  with 
Shakespeare.  ] 
We  still  must  wait!     There  is  no  haste. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  273 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Will  you  speak  truth?  I  should  say,  can 
a  woman  speak  truth?    All  truth,  I  mean. 

ELISABETH 

I  can — I  will — to  you. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Whether  I  doubt  or  believe,  I'll  question 
you.  Answer  you  what  you  will.  Is  Will 
Shakespeare  mad  or  do  you  love  him? 

ELISAEETH 

[She  covers  her  face  with  her  hands  in 
deep  agitation.] 
O,   I  believe  I   do!     I   love  his  greatness 
which  few  see  as  I. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Do  I  not  know  his  greatness?  Hell's  at 
work  in  my  life!  But  we're  here  in  the 
world.     What  can  come  of  such  love? 


274  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

ELISABETH 

I  do  not  know. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Could  you  give  your  life  to  him?  Could 
you  wed  Will  Shakespeare,  even  had  he  no 
wife? 

ELISABETH 

[Again  with  agitation.'] 
O — I  know  not. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

And  if  you  do  not  wed — I  am  a  man — - 
what  then? 

ELISABETH 

Shame !  Probing  to  the  heart  the  bud  that 
is  not  yet  a  rose! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Damnation!  Is  life  to  betray  me  twice  in 
one  day?  I  will  not  have  it.  I've  thirsted, 
in  the  ages  since  this  afternoon,  for  this 
hour.     It     comes     quickly — but — it     cheats. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  275 

Answer   again.     Are    you    pledged    willingly 
in  any  sense  that's  true,  to  Will  Shakespeare? 


ELISABETH 

[With  subtle  coquetry."] 
O  pledged?    No — Pledged  is  a  hard  word. 
But  were  he  another  than  he  is  it  would  be  true 
— all  true. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

He  has  deceived  himself? 

ELISABETH 

Yes. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Then  if  he  is  self -deceived  and  you  not 
pledged,  I'll  speak:  There  is  no  treason.  I 
swear  that  when  I  met  you  in  the  Court  this 
afternoon  my  heart  was  empty  as  a  shell  that 
whispers  of  the  distant  sea.  That  sea  of 
Love  that  often  breaks  its  waves  upon  a 
stone. 

ELISABETH 

A  stone? 


276  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SOUTHAMPTON 

A  woman  can  turn  stone  as  easily  as 
breathe  ...  at  least  so  Bridget  Man- 
ners can!  Fve  looked  upon  your  beauty  all 
these  years.  Feasted  upon  it  as  I  would  upon 
a  sun-riped  nectarine.  My  senses  would 
have  starved  if  Fd  not  seen  its  richness  upon 
such  and  such  a  day.  But  I  was  blind.  A 
little  vile,  yellow,  speck  of  dust  between  my 
eyes  and  sunlight.  But  when  I  saw  you  to- 
day I — dried,  parched  by  that  same  dust — 
knew  you  could  fill  my  heart  up  to  the  brim 
with  life. 

ELISABETH 

O  too  late!    Too  late! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

What  do  you  mean? 

ELISABETH 

[With  reserve.] 
Did  I  not  say  to  you  that  maids  are  wisest 
when  they  doubt  all  words  of  yours. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  277 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Passionately.] 
O  words — what  are  words?  Look  at  me. 
I've  starved  on  a  dream  and  now  I'm  Life 
itself  for  you.  We're  here,  alone,  and  Life, 
its  very  self,  no  cheat  or  dream,  is  pressing 
close.  Will  you  let  it  slip  away?  If  you  so 
wish — I'll  go. 

ELISABETH 

No,  No! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[He   kneels  on   one  knee  close  to  her 
knees  and  takes  her  hands.] 

May  I  kneel  here  and  worship? 

[Elisabeth  does  not  answer.] 

How  still!     Do  I  displease  you  so?    Do  you 
wish  me  to  leave  you? 

ELISABETH 

[Closing   her  eyes  and  speaking  as  if 
drugged.] 
No!     No! 


278  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

SOUTHAMPTON 

What  am  I  to  you? 

ELISABETH 

[Slowly  opening  her  eyes  and  meeting  his.] 
The  Kingdoms  of  the  World  and  the  Glory  of 
them. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Caught ! 

[He  snatches  her  in  his  arms  and  kisses 
her  violently.  She  does  not  rebuke 
him  but  reaches  out  her  arms  and 
strains  him  to  her,  returning  his  em- 
brace and  kiss  with  twofold  passion. 
They  release  each  other  and  South- 
ampton stands,  looking  down  upon  her 
upturned  face.  The  door  is  suddenly 
opened  and  Shakespeare  enters.  He 
goes  toward  them.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  deep,  restrained  emotion.]  Forth 
from     this     great     Enchantment     I     could 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  279 

not  go  to  meet  the  world  without  one  last, 
dear  look.  You  need  not  speak.  Let  but 
my  eyes,  my  heart  embrace  you  both.  [To 
Southampton."}  My  Friend!  [To  Elisa- 
beth.']    My  Happiness! 

[As  they  stand  with  slightly  bowed 
heads,  guilty  and  silent,  he  goes 
toward  the  door  and  there  stops,  hat 
in  hand,  looking  at  them.  He  calls  in 
a  clear  voice.]  > 
There  are  my  two  Angels ! 

CURTAIN 
END    OF  ACT    III 


ACT  IV 

THE     PYRE—THE     NEW     PHOENIX 

RISES  FROM   THE  ASHES 

JUNE    1598 


ACT  IV 

THE     PYRE— THE     NEW     PHOENIX 

RISES   FROM   THE  ASHES 

JUNE    1598 

Scene:  [Bacchanal  music]  The  Garden 
and  Terrace  of  TitchHeld,  the  country  seat  of 
the  Earl  of  Southampton.  A  background  of 
trees  and  sky.  Across  the  back  of  stage  is  a 
stone  ivy- grown  terrace  with  a  balustrade. 
A  stone  stair  leads  down  on  either  side  from 
the  terrace  to  the  foreground  of  the  stage. 
Trees,  flowering  shrubs  and  flowers  -flank 
either  side.  There  is  a  stone  seat  at  the 
right.  In  the  centre  at  back,  built  against  the 
stone  terrace,  is  a  fountain  with  a  semi-circu- 
lar stone  basin  with  a  broad  rim.  The  whole 
scene  has  a  picturesque  and  romantic  beauty. 
At  the  left  above,  opening  on  the  Terrace,  is 
seen  the  corner  of  a  vine-covered,  stone 
283 


284  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

manor-house.  The  windows  of  the  house  are 
lighted.  The  moonlight  is  clear  and  brilliant. 
Lighted  lanterns  of  soft  light  colours  hang  in 
the  trees.  When  the  curtain  rises,  nymphs, 
in  filmy  draperies  with  cymbals  and  wreaths 
of  flowers,  and  satyrs  and  fauns  dressed  in 
skins  and  crowned  with  green  leaves,  are 
moving  across  terrace  and  steps  and  among 
the  shrubs  and  trees.  As  the  curtain  rises 
they  sing  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  or- 
chestra; as  they  sing  they  rush  wildly  down 
the  steps,  the  satyrs  and  fauns  striving  to 
catch  the  nymphs,  who  elude  them,  laughing 
and  dancing. ,] 

SONG 
ALL 

For  this  night  we  are  not  men 
Nymphs  and  Fauns  and  Satyrs  we! 

SATYRS    AND    FAUNS 

Peep  at  head  and  feet  and  then 
Furry  ears  and  hoofs  you'll  see! 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  285 

ALL 

If  a  stranger  cross  our  path 
Dare  our  covert  to  intrude, 
Straight  we  crush  him  with  our  wrath 
Drive  him  from  our  sacred  wood. 

FAUNS 

If  a  maiden  this  way  come 
Rightful  prey  is  she  of  ours; 
Swiftly  do  we  bear  her  home 
To  our  couch  of  moss  and  flowers. 

ALL 

For  this  night  we  are  not  men 
Nymphs  and  Fauns  and  Satyrs  we! 

SATYRS    AND    FAUNS 

Peep  at  head  and  feet  and  then 
Furry  ears  and  hoofs  you'll  see! 
[Stage   Direction — The   music  for   this 
song  is  abrupt  and  rough,  and  at  the 
end  of  each  verse  the  cymbals  clash 
wildly. 1 


286  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

[At  the  end  of  this  song  the  Satyrs  and 
Nymphs  and  Fauns  creep  back  behind 
the  shrubs  and  trees  and  hide.] 

[Enter  Shakespeare  dressed  in  a  black 
costume  like  the  one  Southampton  has 
prepared  for  the  Masque.  He  wears 
the  blue  ribbon  and  star  of  the  order 
of  the  Garter.  He  is  unmasked  but 
carries  a  mask  in  his  hand.  He  wears 
also  a  large  black  hat  and  cloak.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Removing  his  hat  as  if  for  more  free- 
dom.] 
How    clear    this    air!      How    magical    these 

flowers ! 
There  is  some  rare  enchantment  in  this  place, 
Some    spirit    breathing    balms    of    Joy    and 

Youth. 
I  know  not  what  awaits  me  here  to-night, 
From  Stratford,  whence  my  messenger  should 
come — ' 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  287 

From  Stratford,  where  I  go  upon  the  mor- 
row; 
What  word  of  Death — or  Life  renewed  for 

Anne. 
I  know  not  whether  I  am  bound  or  free — 
What  comes  is  veiled — but  this  one  thing  is 

sure — 
This  hour  is  deadly  sweet,  and  brings  to  me 
The  life  of  mine  own  life,  Elisabeth ! 
Through    all    these    wasteful,    fruitless    days 

and  weeks, 
Love-haunted,       love-tormented,       I       have 

dragged 
Body  and  will  to  meet  each  hour's  behest. 
While  far  across  the  miles  that  stretched  be- 
tween 
My  spirit  free  and  swift  and  strong  as  fire 
Has  flown  and  dwelt  with  her,  so  leaving  me 
A  ravished  altar,  bankrupt  of  its  flame — 
A  dead  man,  living  still,  whose  soul  survives 
But  in  the  pleasure  of  his  Mistress*  will. 
Yet  now  all  life  sweeps  back  to  fill  my  life 
And  every  step  that  brings  me  closer  her 


288  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Makes  me  tenfold  a  man — Nearer  a  god! 

[He  touches  the  star  and  ribbon  of  the 

Garter.'] 
For  once  a   Prince!    Though   but   for   one 

short  night, 
Sweet  Heaven,  send  some  princely  destiny! 
[Bacchanal    music.       The    Satyrs    and 

Fauns   creep  from   the    bushes    and 

spring     upon     Shakespeare     singing 

roughly. 1 

SATYRS 

If  a  stranger  cross  our  path, 
Dare  our  covert  to  intrude, 

Straight  we  crush  him  with  our  wrath, 
Drive  him  from  our  sacred  wood. 


SHAKESPEARE 

[Joyously."] 
My  old-time  Forest-Friends  at  last!     Come 

on! 
IVe  waited  for  you  long! 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  289 

FIRST    SATYR 

Now  throw  him  down! 

SECOND     SATYR 

I'll  trip  his  heels! 

THIRD    SATYR 

I'll  twist  and  break  his  bones! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Come  rough  or  smooth,  all's  well  for  me  to- 
night ! 
[He  fights  with  the  satyrs,  overpowers 
them  and  drives  them  back  to  the  co- 
vert of  the  bushes. 1 

SATYRS    AND    FAUNS 

[Singing  mournfully  behind  the  bushes 
and  groaning  at  the  end  of  each  line.~\ 
For  to-night  we  are  not  men — 

O!    O!    O! 
Fauns  and  hairy  Satyrs  we — ■ 

O!    O!    O! 


2QO  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

[He  advances  a  few  steps."] 
A  mystic  night  borne  from  a  land  of  dreams! 
Are  all  my  visions  closing  round  my  path, 
No  dreams  but  substance  of  my  life  at  last? 

[Soft  music  is  he'ard.    A  water  Nymph 
rises  slowly  from  the  fountain.] 

WATER     NYMPH 

[Holding  out  her  arms  to  Shakespeare.] 
Beloved,    I've   risen    from   such    far,    green 

depths, 
Dashing  the  salt  spray  from  my  seeking  eyes. 
Long,    long   ago — you   called   me    from    the 

sea — 
I  heard  and  I  am  come  to  answer  you. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Going    nearer    to    the    fountain.     He 
speaks  with  humour,  shuddering.] 
The  women  of  the  sea  must  be  so  cold ! 

WATER     NYMPH 

THe  women  of  the  earth  are  ever  false! 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  291 

SHAKESPEARE 

This  even  from  a  Water-Fay! 

WATER    NYMPH 

Trust  None ! 

SHAKESPEARE 

Not  even  you? 

WATER    NYMPH 

Trust  no  one  on  the  earth. 
Trust  me.     Deep  as  the  sea  my  love.     Come! 
Come! 
[She  holds  out  her  arms*  beckoning. ~\ 

SHAKESPEARE 

No  love  of  yours  for  me,  nor  mine  for  you! 

But  I  can  dream  a  thousand  lives  in  one. 

Earth,  sea,  and  sky  are  mine,  if  so  I  choose! 
[He  goes  quickly  to  the  edge  of  the 
fountain.  The  Water  Nymph 
splashes  the  water  over  him  and  sud- 
denly sinks  down  in  the  water  and 
vanishes  laughing,  mockingly. ,] 


292  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

WATER     NYMPH 

[As  she  sinks.] 
Deep  as  the  sea  my  love.     Follow  me  there! 
[The  Satyrs  and  Fauns  echo  her  laugh- 
ter softly  from  the  bushes.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

Each    briny    drop    a    sea-kiss,     fresh    and 
strange. 

Through  Dreams  and  Follies  to  my  Star  of 
Love! 
[He  passes  across  the  stage  and  goes  out 
through  the  shrubs  and  flowers  at 
right.  Enter  from  terrace  above, 
Elisabeth  Vernon  and  her  waiting- 
woman,  Phillida,  unmasked,  but  carry- 
ing masks."] 

ELISABETH 

How  long  has  Florian  paid  court  to  you? 

PHILLIDA 

A  year. 

ELISABETH 

And  how  do  you  regard  this  youth? 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  293 

PHILLIDA 

I  trifle  with  him  when  that  he  is  near, 

But  when  he  goes  I  would  that  he  were  back. 

ELISABETH 

In  your   small  way  you  love!    You'll  play 

your  part. 
Heed    me — Lord    Southampton    has    hidden 

from  me 
Two  days.     Love-tokens  he  has  sent  to  me 
And  written  words.     But  while  he's  planned 

this  masque, 
Filling  these  shaded  nooks  with  Nymphs  and 

Fauns, 
Making  sweet  music  sound  from  every  bush, 
He  has  not  let  me  see  his  face,  nor  learn 
What  his  disguise  to-night.     This  is  a  jest 
To  him,  to  whet  this  evening's  mystery — 
But  'tis  to  me  sheer  torment.     When   he's 

gone, 
I  know  not  where  he  goes,  nor  what  he  does. 
O  Phillida,  if  you  should  love  a  man, 


294  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Love  him,  I  mean,  so  you  are  lost  in  him, 
Passed  quite  from  out  yourself,  your  soul  and 

life 
All  at  the  mercy  of  his  veering  will, 
Then  never,  never  let  him  from  your  sight — 
For  if  you  do,  some  mischief's  sure  to  come. 

PHILLIDA 

I  wish  that  you  had  never  seen  his  face! 
Are  men  so  false? 

ELISABETH 

Some  do  not  mean  to  be, 
And  yet  are  so!     Florian  will  surely  know 
What  dress  his  master  wears.     Watch  here 

for  him, 
Until  he  comes — and  he  is  sure  to  come, 
For  from  the  casement  in  the  hall  above 
Where    we    were    dallying    with    the    other 

guests, 
I  spied  him  speeding  toward  this  very  spot 
Down  the  Yew  path.     Garbed  like  a  Faun  in 

Skins, 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  295 

Bearing  a  silver  casket  in  his  arms — 
Learn  alt  from  him. 

[She  points  down  the  alley  at  left.'] 

He  comes!     Dear  Phillida, 
Now   fail  me  not.    I  must  have  sight  and 

speech 
Of  Southampton  to-night.     If  you  should  see 
My  Lord,  give  this  into  his  hands.     Fail  not! 
[She  gives  Phillida  a  note.] 
[Exit  Elisabeth  to  house.    Phillida  goes 
with  her   to   the   top   of   the   terrace. 
Enter  Florian   dressed   like  a   Faun, 
carrying  the  silver  casket.] 

FLORIAN* 

[Singing.] 

Mighty  Venus,  mightier  Love 

Help  who  weareth  this  disguise 
Help  him  Heavenly  Powers  above 

Guard  him  from  her  dangerous  eyes! 

PHILLIDA 

[She  plucks  a  rose  from  roses  that  grow 


296  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

on  the  Terrace  and  throws  it,  striking 
Florian  who  stops  and  looks  up.~\ 

FLORIAN 

My  Phillida! 

PHILLIDA 

What  have  you  in  that  box? 

FLORIAN 

You  shall  not  know. 

PHILLIDA 

You  swore  last  week  you  would  do  aught  I 

wished. 
And  the  first  thing  I  ask  you,  you  deny! 

FLORIAN 

Again  I  swear  you — anything — but  this ! 

PHILLIDA 

Good  even ! 

[She  goes  toward  the  house.'] 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  297 

FLORIAN 

Phillida! 
[He  climbs  to  the  top  of  the  Terrace  by 
means  of  the  stone-work  of  the  Foun- 
tain. Phillida  returns.  Florian  lays 
the  silver  casket  on  the  top  of  the  bal- 
ustrade and  sits  beside  it.] 

PHILLIDA 

[Drawing  close  to  him.~\ 

How  beautiful 
You  are  in  your  Faun's  dress! 

florian 

I  ever  said 
You'd  a  rare  eye  for  my  fine  points! 

[As  he  speaks,  smiling  conceitedly,  Phil- 
lida swiftly  opens  the  casket  and 
snatches  the  costume  from  it,  examin- 
ing it  before  Florian  has  time  to  take 
it  from  her.  Enter  Essex  in  the  cos- 
tume of  a  Roman  warrior.  He  hides 
and  watches. 1 


29&  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

FLORIAN 

You  wretch! 
But  sure  'twas  not  my  fault!     For  man  is 

strong, 
God  stronger,  woman  strongest! 

PHILLIDA 

\Eluding  Florian,  holds  up  the  costume 
and  ornaments  laughing.'] 

Well  I  know 
This   is   my   Lord   Southampton's    dress   to- 
night 
[Still  eluding  Florian  who  tries  to  catch 
her.] 
Black  mask  and  hose  and  doublet — and  the 

star 
And  chain  and  azure  ribbon  of  a  knight 
Of  noble  orders  most  august — the  Garter! 

FLORIAN 

[Snatching  the  costume  and  putting  it  in 
the  box.] 
I  deny  your  guess! 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  299 

Phillida 
Your  eyes  affirm  its  truth. 

FLORIAN 

Now  keep  the  secret  you  have  stolen  from  me 
Or  I  am  lost!     My  Lord  awaits.     A  kiss? 

PHILLIDA 

Not  one. 

FLORIAN 

[With     mock     tragedy.     Kneeling     be- 
seechingly. ] 

I  prithee,  maiden,  for  the  good 
Of  my  poor  soul. 

[Phillida  eludes  him  and  runs  to  house 
laughing. J 

FLORIAN 

My  time's  not  yet  but  comes— 
For  that  lost  kiss  I'll  twenty  steal  to-night ! 
[Exit  Florian  with  casket.] 


300  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

ESSEX 

The  waiting  woman  of  Elisabeth,  peeping 
at  Southampton's  disguise.  Great  God!  No 
woman's  safe  from  him,  nor  he  from  them! 
He  would  wed  Bridget  Manners,  eyes  Elisa- 
beth, and  lures  her  maid.  Some  men  should 
be  labelled  "  Poison "  and  imprisoned.  He 
even  magnetizes  me  when  I  am  in  his  pres- 
ence. Praise  Heaven,  he  goes  soon  to  Paris! 
[Enter  Herbert  by  the  same  entrance  by 
which  Essex  entered."} 

ESSEX 

Well  met,  Herbert! 

[Enter  the  two  pages  who  appeared  in 
Act  HI,  one  playing  with  a  cup  and 
ball.  They  sit  on  the  edge  of  the 
fountain,  not  seeing  Essex  and  Her- 
bert behind  the  shrubs  at  right, .] 

FIRST   PAGE 

[Tossing  the  ball  and  trying  to  catch  it 
in  the  cup  and  missing  it.} 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  301 

I  have  it  from  the  steward's  wife  that  Lord 
Southampton  is  not  to  marry  Lady  Bridget 
Manners — and  more  than  that! 

[Herbert  steps  forward  as  if  to  silence 
the  pages,  but  Essex  restrains  him.'] 

SECOND   PAGE 

You've  missed  the  ball  three  times.  It's 
my  turn.  [He  takes  the  cup  and  ball] 
What  more  of  my  Lord  Southampton. 

FIRST    PAGE 

You'll  never  guess! 

SECOND   PAGE 

[Tossing  the  ball.]-  I  know  more  than  I 
tell.     Go  on. 

FIRST    PAGE 

'Tis  said  Lord  Southampton  has  courted 
Mistress  Elisabeth  Vernon  with  too  much 
familiarity.  The  steward's  wife  had  it  from 
Lady  Bridget's  maid.  The  maids  know  it — 
the  court  knows  it — the  Town  will  know  soon 


302  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

— everyone  but   the   Queen — and   when   she 

knows  there'll  be  a  reckoning! 

[Essex  starts  and  unsheathes  his  sword. 
Herbert  again  makes  as  if  to  stop 
the  talk  of  the  pages  but  Essex  again 
restrains  him  and  they  listen.'] 

SECOND   PAGE 

No  news  to  me ! 

FIRST    PAGE 

The  pride  of  him!  You  fool  not  me  with 
your  mock  knowledge. 

SECOND   PAGE 

Do  you  remember  the  night  of  the  game  of 
swords  a  month  since  in  my  Lord's  house  in 
Holborn. 

FIRST    PAGE 

Well. 

SECOND    PAGE 

At  ten  o'clock,  I  fell  asleep  hidden  in  the 
alcove  of  the  little  stair  by  the  door  that  leads 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  303 

to  my  lord's  cabinet.  At  two  in  the  morn- 
ing [I  know,  for  I  heard  the  bells  strike] 
voices  wakened  me.  Lord  Southampton  and 
Mistress  Elisabeth  came  down  the  stair.  At 
the  door  to  the  court  she  veiled  herself  and 
they  passed  out  to  the  outer  court  and  so  to 
the  streets.  But  I'll  warrant  you  there  were 
soft  words  and  clingings  before  they  left  the 
stair.  I  saw  her  face  plain.  She's  a  rare 
Beauty ! 

FIRST    PAGE 

Why  told  you  not  me  before? 

SECOND    PAGE 

I  saw  Florian  beat  Peter  Dumpser  for  an- 
gering my  Lord  Southampton  that  same  day. 
I  held  my  peace  because  I  value  my  skin  and 
my  place.  But  if  others  know,  I'm  safe! 
[A  whistle  is  heard  from  the  house.]  The 
Steward's  whistle!     Come  quick! 

[Exeunt  Pages  running.  Essex  stands 
motionless  with  bent  head.  Then 
speaks  with  restrained  rage  and  pain."] 


304  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

ESSEX 

Herbert  is  this  true?     No  lies. 

HERBERT 

I  would  have  spared  you! 

ESSEX 

O  fooled  and  gulled!  Under  my  very 
eyes!  Elisabeth!  My  Pride!  The  Flower 
of  all  our  race!  Dragged  down  amid  the 
yery  ruck  of  women  who  fall  in  the  slime  of 
men's  lust.  Elisabeth  in  Southampton's 
room  that  night!  O  blind  fool!  Under  my 
very  eyes!  [He  pauses  as  if  searching  his 
memory.  ]  What  meant  Will  Shakespeare  by 
his  fond  confession  that  so  moved  us? 

HERBERT 

The  merest  mummery,  to  shelter  his  idol, 
Southampton. 

ESSEX 

He  forewarned  me  that  afternoon  that 
were  we  matched  against  each  other,  he  would 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  305 

triumph.     [Bitterly.]     But    I    was    an    easy 
dupe.     How  long  have  you  known? 


HERBERT 

I  heard  it  whispered  more  than  a  fortnight 
since. 

[Two  ladies  cross  the  terrace  above, 
talking  and  laughing  and  go  out  at 
left.] 

ESSEX 

I  see  blood  on  everything. 

PEMBROKE 

Have  care!     Come   aside  where  we  may 
speak  unnoticed. 

[Exit  Essex  and  Herbert."] 
[Enter    Shakespeare.     He  puts   on    his 
mask,  draws  his  hat  over  his  eyes  and 
steps  aside  as  the  two  ladies  re-enter 
from  left.] 

FIRST    LADY 

How  are  the  mighty  fallen! 


3o6  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

SECOND    LADY 

She  was  ever  too  proud  to  please  me. 


FIRST    LADY 

[Removing  her  mask  and  fanning  herself.'} 
I'm  warm  with  dancing!  I  pity  her  the  more 
because  of  her  pride.  Will  Southampton  wed 
her,  think  you? 

SECOND    LADY 

If  his  wooing  of  her  has  been  so  free,  why 
should  he? 

[Exit  Ladies.} 

SHAKESPEARE 

There's  some  malicious  spite  at  work!  They 

speak  of  Bridget  Manners  and  Southampton. 

Who  would  have  thought  that  scandal  would 

stain  that  snow  image!     But  none  escape! 

[Enter  from  terrace  Phillida.    She  goes 

to  Shakespeare  with  a  letter  in  her 

hand.] 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  30^ 

PHILLIDA 

[Giving  him  the  letter."] 
My  mistress  bade  me  place  this  in  your  hands. 
[She  courtesies  and  goes  out  at  same  en- 
trance.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With  agitation,  opens  the  letter  without 
looking  at  the  address.    He  looks  at 
the  signature.] 
Elisabeth ! 

[He  reads.] 
"Cruel  Beloved — Your  absence  from  me  has 
been  winter,  though  summer  is  at  our  doors." 
[He  passes  his  hand  across  his  eyes  as 
if  to  clear  them.] 

0  Love,  what  dost  thou  to  mine  eyes  that 
they  behold  and  see  not  what  they  see1?    Do 

1  read  right?  The  words  all  run  together 
like  rose-colored  flames.  [He  reads  again.] 
"  These  June  days  without  you  have  been  but 
a  December  night.  See  how  I  lay  bare  my 
heart,  but  mighty  Love  and  this  dark  solitude 


3o8  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

have  mastered  its  reserves.  Seek  me  without 
delay  this  evening,  for  I  can  wait  alone  no 
more.    Elisabeth." 

ELISABETH 

[Shakespeare  pauses  and  then  kisses  the 
open  letter  and  hides  it  in  his  doub- 
let] 
O  Heaven!     Have  you  in  all  your  divine 
store  a  gift  more  princely  than  this? 

[He  hastily  masks  himself  and  draws  his 
hat  partly  over  his  eyes  as  Essex  en- 
ters at  right,  unmasked.  Enter  at  left 
Peter  Dumpser  in  traveling  costume.'] 

PETER 

[At  left.] 
Here  comes  a  man  with  a  sword  unsheathed. 
No  more  fighting  for  me ! 

[He  climbs  the  nearest  tree  and  watches 
Essex  and  Shakespeare.] 

ESSEX 

^Advancing  to  Shakespeare  with  blind 
frenzy.] 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  309 

Southampton,  Foul  Libertine  and  Coward! 
Since  your  crime  cries  from  the  housetops,  here 
on  your  own  land,  take  its  just  requital. 

[He  tries  to  stab  Shakespeare  with  his 

short    Roman     sword.     Shakespeare 

parries  the  blow,  but  does  not  return 

it.    Essex  continues  more  wildly.] 

Think  you  to  hide  from  me?    The  very  air 

whispered  me  your  disguise.     Will  you  let 

me  kill  you  like  the  dog  you  are?    So  be  it 

then. 

[He  strikes  again.  Shakespeare  defends 
himself.  Essex's  sword  pierces  his 
shoulder  and  in  defending  another 
blow,  Shakespeare  wounds  Essex  in 
the  right  side.  Voices  and  laughter  of 
guests  is  heard  approaching.  Essex 
staggers  and  falls.  Shakespeare  at- 
tempts to  help  him  to  rise,  but  Essex 
repels  him  and  struggles  to  his  feet. 
The  guests  draw  nearer."] 
Curses!  I'm  helpless.  But  the  end's  not 
now! 


310  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

[Guests  are  seen  at  entrance  to  Terrace, 
at  right.  Essex  goes  toward  left  with 
difficulty,  staggering  and  swaying. 
Exit  Essex.    Guests  go  out  again.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[He  staunches  the  blood  from  his  wound, 
laughing.] 
Ah  Southampton !  This  dress  has  stood  you 
in  good  stead  to-night.  Better  my  sturdy 
blood  than  the  fine  wine  of  yours!  But  who 
would  have  thought  Essex  would  have  taken 
scandal  about  Bridget  Manners  so  to  heart? 
There's  madness  spreading  in  his  blood  and 
brain.  What  more  dangerous  than  the 
wounded  Lion?  Where  hides  Southampton? 
Some  warning's  urgent  for  him.  Somewhere 
in  garden  or  in  house  he's  to  be  found — and 
then — my  Joy! 

[Exit  Shakespeare  at  right.] 

PETER 

[Descending  from  the  tree.] 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  311 

I  would  I  were  safe  in  Stratford! 

[Exit   Peter   at   left.     Enter    Elisabeth 
and  Phillida.']  * 


ELISABETH 

My  lord  gave  you  no  answer  for  me? 

PHILLIDA 

People  were  coming  and  I  feared  to  be  seen 
of  them.  I  gave  the  letter  into  his  hands  and 
ran  away  before  anyone  spied  me. 

ELISABETH 

It  was  wisest  so.  But  there's  no  peace. 
Go  seek  him  Phillida  through  all  the  Park, 
and  when  you  find  him  tell  him  I  wait  him  in 
the  vine-covered  summer-house  by  the  Old 
Fish  Pool. 

PHILLIDA 

I'll  find  him  easily.  I  saw  his  black  dress 
and  blue  ribbon  but  now  amid  the  Masquers 
in  the  Pleasance  near  the  house. 


312  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

ELISABETH 

I  breathe  with  more  ease.  The  darkness 
that  has  been  around  me  clears.  Tis  a  most 
fair  night!  I  go  to  the  summer-house,  Phil- 
lida.     Send  my  lord  soon. 

[Exit  Elisabeth  at  left.  Bacchanal  music 
sounds.  Enter  Fauns  from  right,  skip- 
ping, dancing  and  singing.  They  sur- 
round Phillida  and  dance  around  her.] 

FAUNS 

[Singing.] 
If  a  maiden  cross  our  path, 
Rightful  prey  is  she  of  ours, 

Straightway  do  we  bear  her  home, 
To  our  couch  of  moss  and  flowers. 

[Phillida  struggles  to  escape  with  genuine 
alarm,  but  each  time  she  tries  to  break 
the  ring  the  Fauns  prevent  her.] 

PHILLIDA 

Let  me  go!    Let  me  go!    Fiends!    Devils! 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  313 

FAUNS 

You're  ours!    You're  ours! 

PHILLIDA 

[Struggling  wildly  with  the  Fauns. ,] 
Fools — quit   your   masquerading!     I'm   on 
my  Lord's  business.    Let  me  go! 

FAUNS 

She's  ours! 

[Enter  Florian,  dressed  as  a  Faun.  He 
breaks  the  ring,  lifts  Phillida  in  his 
arms  and  carries  her  off.] 

FLORIAN 

She's  mine! 

PHILLIDA 

[Struggling  with  Florian.] 
Ah!    You  shall  rue  this  Florian. 

[Exit  Florian  carrying  Phillida  at  left. 

Fauns  rush  off  at  right,  laughing  and 

singing. ~\ 


314  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

[Enter  Elisabeth  from  left  back,  not  the 
same  entrance  by  which  Florian  and 
Phillida  have  gone  out.    She  calls.~\ 

Phillida!    Phillida!    Where  are  you?    I  would 

speak  with  you! 

[Enter  Shakespeare  from  left  still  masked 
and  with  his  hat  brim  pulled  over  his 
eyes.  His  cloak  is  thrown  back.  The 
Star  and  chain  and  ribbon  of  the 
Garter  show  plainly.  Elisabeth  goes 
toward  him  swiftly.'] 

O  my  Love,  why  have  you  remained  away 

from   me    so    long?     But    no    masquerading 

can  hide  you  from  my  eyes ! 

[Bacchanal  music.  A  nymph  chased  by 
a  Faun  runs  from  left  across  the  stage. 
Shakespeare  has  remained  silent,  only 
showing  by  a  gesture,  his  emotion.'] 

Did  Phillida  tell  you  that  I  should  wait  you 

in  the  Summer-house  by  the  pool? 

[The  Nymph  and  Faun  re-enter  together, 
laughing  and  talking.  They  pause 
near  Elisabeth  and  Shakespeare.] 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  315 

ELISABETH 

[Speaking  softly."] 
Yes — You  are  wise  to  remain  masked  and 
silent — so  guarding  me — for  at  sight  of  you  I 
forget  all  but  you.     Follow  me  to  the  Summer- 
house.     I  will  go  first  that  there  may  be  no 
evil  eyes  to  spy,  or  cruel  tongues  to  slander. 
[Exit  Elisabeth  at  right,  followed  by  the 
Nymph  and  Faun.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

God!     Can  such  joy  be  mine!     This  ecstasy 
Is  keen  and  sharp  and  held   me  dumb   and 

still 
Before  the  splendour  of  her  wondrous  self. 
She  bade  me  follow  to  the  Summer-house 
Beside  the  pool.     Which  house,  what  pool? 

O  Love, 
Guide  thou  my  steps  to  her.     Come  glorious 

Hour! 
And  let  me  live  at  last! 

[Exit  Shakespeare  at  right.     Florian's 

voice  is  heard  shouting  from  Terrace.] 


316  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Help!    Help!     Murder  has  been  done! 

[Enter  Florian  on  Terrace,  followed  by 
Phillida.     He  rushes  to  centre  of  top 
of   Terrace   shouting  and  calling,   in 
intense  excitement.'] 
Help!    Help! 

[Herbert  and  guests  rush  from  house 
at  right  and  from  left  to  the  Terrace, 
many  bearing  torches,  and  stand  on 
either  side  of  Florian.     Others  enter 
with  torches  from  right  and  left  below. 
Florian  continues  to  speak  loudly  with 
the  same  excitement. ] 
Some  one  has  tried  to  kill  my  Lord  Essex! 
A  dastardly  murder  be  sure.     I  found  him 
lying  in  the  shrubbery  behind  the*  house,  bleed- 
ing and  still.     So  still  I  think  him  dead ! 
[Excitement  among  guests.] 

HERBERT 

I'll  seek  and  bear  him  here. 

TWO    GENTLEMEN 

We'll  go  with  you. 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  317 

[Exit  Herbert  and  gentlemen.  The 
guests  crowd  around  Florian,  question- 
ing him.  Enter  Herbert  and  gentle- 
men from  below  at  right  carrying 
Essex.  They  lay  him  on  the  grass  in 
centre,  in  front.  The  guests  crowd 
the  stairs  from  the  terrace  on  either 
side,  with  torches.  Others  with  torches 
are  grouped  about  Essex,  Herbert  and 
Elorian  in  centre.'] 


HERBERT 

Who  has  done  this? 

[Enter  a  guest,  dragging  with  him  Peter 
Dumpser.] 

GUEST 

Here  is  a  boy  who  knows  more  than  He 
will  tell. 

FLORIAN* 

That  Rat,  Pierre! 


318  WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

HERBERT 

[Who  has  been  trying  to  revive  Essex,  to 
Peter.] 
Do  you  know  aught  of  this? 
[Peter  is  silent.] 

HERBERT 

Come.    Speak,  Lout. 

PETER 

I  have  had  trouble  in  my  Lord  Southamp- 
ton^ house  before  now.  I  would  liefer  be 
silent,  if  it  please  you,  my  Lord. 

FLORIAN 

[With  an  air  of  stern  virtue.] 
Speak  the  truth,  Pierre.    The  whole  truth — 
naught  but  truth ! 

PETER 

If  Florian  bids  me  tell  the  truth,  I  know  I 
may!  I  have  been  in  Stratford  with  my 
mother  a  month  and  reached  Titchfield  this 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  319 

evening.  As  I  came  here  to  the  garden  seek- 
ing my  Lord  Southampton,  and  Master  Will 
Shakespeare,  I  saw  two  men  quarrelling  and 
I  climbed  a  tree,  thinking  that  as  the  quarrel 
was  none  of  mine,  'twas  best  I  should  take 
no  part  in  it. 

HERBERT 

Did  you  see  who  fought? 

PETER 

I  saw  my  Lord  Essex,  but  the  other  one 
wore  a  black  mask. 

HERBERT 

What  garments  did  he  wear?  What  was 
his  height?    Tell  all. 

PETES 

He  was  all  in  black,  but  a  blue  ribbon  was 
drawn  across  his  breast  and  a  great  star  of 
diamonds  shone  upon  it.  A  chain  of  gold 
was  about  his  neck,  he  was  of  a  noble  port, 
and  his  head  was  as  high  as  was  my  Lord 
Essex's  head. 

[Florian  shows  dismay  at  Peter's  words."] 


320  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

HERBERU 

[To  guests. ] 
Disperse — search  the  grounds!    Find  this 
masked  cut-throat. 

[Some  of  the  guests  go  out  hastily.    Her-' 
bert  bends  over  Essex. ] 

FLORIAN 

[Aside  to  Peter.] 

O  Pierre,  you  witless   worm!    The  black 

masquer  with  the  ribbon  of  the  garter  was  my 

Lord  Southampton.     You  have  undone  us  all ! 

[He  takes  Peter  aside  and  scolds  him, 

while  Peter  expostulates.    Herbert  and 

guests   re-enter,    bringing   with    them 

Southampton  masked  and  dressed  in 

costume  like  Shakespeare's.] 

HERBERT 

Unmask,  you  scoundrel! 

SOUTHAMPTON 

What  folly  is  this?    By  whose  insolent  in- 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  321 

terference   am   I   dragged  here?      [He  sees 
Essex.]     What's  here? 

HERBERT 

Your    mock    ignorance   avails   not.      You 
were  seen  by  this  lad.     [He  indicates  Peter.] 

SOUTHAMPTON 

You  are  all  mad.     Who  has  wounded  the 
Earl? 

HERBERT 

[To  Peter.] 
Was  this  he  whom  you  saw?    Answer. 

PETER 

[Whimpering.] 
Indeed  he  wears  the  same  dress  and  hat  and 
has  the  same  port  and  build. 

HERBERT 

[To  Southampton.] 
Seek  not  to  escape. 

[Enter  Elisabeth  at  right.    She  waits  at 
entrance  listening.] 


322  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[To  Herbert.'] 
Are  you  mad  too  ? 

[Enter  Shakespeare  front  left,  masked. 
Herbert  and  the  guests  show  their 
surprise  at  seeing  two  black  masks 
dressed  exactly  alike.] 


HERBERT 

An  end  to  this  folly — unmask  both — or  by 

Heaven  there  now  will  be  force  for  force — 

blood  for  this  blood.     [He  indicates  Essex.] 

[Shakespeare  unmasks  and  Southampton 

follows  his  example.    Elisabeth  draws 

near  Southampton.  Shakespeare  kneels 

beside  Essex  and  puts  his  hand  to  his 

heart.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

His  heart  beats  well.  He  but  swoons. 
[Imperiously,  to  the  guests.]  You  crowd  too 
closely.     Back  that  he  may  have  more  air. 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  323 

[All  fall  back  but  Elisabeth,  Southampton, 
'Herbert  and  Florian.]     A  cordial,  Florian. 
[Exit  Florian  to  house.'] 


ELISABETH 

[Aside  to  Southampton.'] 
O  Love,  was  this  wisely  done  ?  Had  you  not 
kept  apart  from  me  these  last  days,  this  might 
have  been  averted.  Why  came  you  not  to  me 
earlier?  Did  not  Phillida  give  my  letter  into 
your  hands  but  now? 

[Shakespeare  hears  her  words.  He 
listens  dazed.  Enter  Florian  with  a 
cordial.  Herbert  takes  it  from  him 
and  stooping  forces  it  between  Essex's 
lips.  Shakespeare  rises  and  going  a 
few  steps  aside,  takes  out  the  letter 
and  reads  the  address,  while  all  watch 
Essex.} 

SHAKESPEARE  . 

[Reading  the  address.] 
To  my  Lord  Southampton. 


324  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

[He  stands  as  if  stupefied,  his  face  con- 
traded  with  intense  grief.  Essex 
raises  himself  on  his  elbow.  South- 
ampton goes  to  him  and  Shakespeare 
crosses  to  Elisabeth  at  left  front.~\ 


SHAKESPEARE 

{Showing  her  the  letter."] 
O  Siren,  false  as  hell  within!    What  glory 
dies  through  you! 

[Elisabeth  looks  in  amaze  at  him  and  at 
his  dress.  Then  she  cowers,  covering 
her  face  with  her  hands.] 


ESSEX 

[Pushing  aside  the  cordial.] 
Let  be.     You  shall  not  make  a  babe  of  me. 

[He  struggles  to  his  feet.] 
Call  my  servants.    I  would  be  away  from  this 
cursed    place.     [To    Southampton.]     South- 
ampton you've   hampered   me   to-night,    but 
our  reckoning  will  come. 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  325 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Indignantly. ] 
'Fore  God,  I  have  not  lifted  hand  against 
you,  nor  even  seen  you  this  night  'till  now. 
[The  guests  murmur. ] 

HERBERT 

[To  Southampton.'] 
Are  you  a  liar ! 

[Shakespeare  has  stood  as  if  pondering, 
his  head  bowed,  his  face  showing  pro- 
found grief.    He  moves  nearer  centre.] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[At  front,  imperiously,  aside  to  South- 
ampton.] 
Bid  your  guests  go.     There  is  untangling  of 
this  snarl,  but  'twere  better  done  alone. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

[Hesitates — then  speaks  to  guests.] 
Good  Friends,  this  accident  has  stopped  quite 
our  pleasure.     That  you  may  be  the  sooner  in- 


326  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

formed  as  to  its  cause  and  satisfied  as  to  its 
just  repairing,  let  our  Festival  end  now. 

[He  goes  toward  guests  and  attends  them 
to  the  exit  at  left  back.  Elisabeth  goes 
to  bench  at  right  and  sits,  her  eyes  and 
face  partly  shaded  by  her  hand.} 

FLORIAN 

[To  Phillida  as  they  pass  out.} 
Ah !  Phillida,  if  you  have  it  in  your  heart  to 
be  kind,  be  so  now,  for  Pierre  has  shamed  all 
my  training ! 

[Phillida  gives  him  her  hand  and  they 
pass  out  at  left.} 


ESSEX 

[To  Herbert.} 
Your  arm. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[To  Herbert.} 
That  this  quarrel  may  be  the  more  quickly 
mended,  I  pray  you  let  me  speak  with  Essex. 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  327 

[Herbert  hesitates,  then  withdraws  a  few 
steps.  Southampton  is  at  left  back 
with  guests,  who  go  out.  Elisabeth 
seated  on  the  bench  at  right  as  before. 
Shakespeare  is  in  centre  at  front  with 
Essex.'] 
[To  Essex.] 

Essex,  for  Friendship's  sake  I   fought  with 
you, 

To   spare    Southampton.     Wearing   his   dis- 
guise 

To  add  another  touch  of  mystery 

To   this    night's   sport — Not    knowing   what 
should  come! 

Your  pardon  for  your  wound  and  mine  to 
you 

For  this — [He  indicates  his  wound.] 

ESSEX 

[He  turns  away  impatiently.] 
Enough. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Ah!    Wait.     You  are  too  quick. 


328         WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

I  claim  your  patience  still.     You  would  de* 

stroy 
Southampton,    thus    to    clear    your    cousin's 

name. 
Tis  the  world's  way!     But  there's  another 

path 
Which  taken  now  may  better  shelter  her. 
Whispers  are  in  the  air,  blown  on  the  wind 
Like  thistledown.     But  like  the  thistledown, 
To  fall  to  earth,  forgot  and  trampled  on, 
If  no  one  fans  the  air  with  scandal's  breath. 
These    two,     {indicating    Southampton    and 

Elisabeth]  be  sure,  or  soon  or  late  will 

wed. 
For  love  of  her  pursue  no  more  revenge. 

ESSEX 

I  cannot  speak  upon  this  now — and  yet — My 
thanks. 

Herbert,  your  arm. 

[Herbert  rejoins  him.  Exit  Essex  and 
Herbert  at  left,  Essex  leaning  upon 
Herbert's  arm.     The  guests  have  all 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  329 

gone.  Southampton  comes  slowly 
toward  centre.  He  pauses  as  he  draws 
near  Shakespeare  and  looks  at  him  with 
anxiety  and  fear.  Elisabeth  has  risen 
and  stands,  her  eyes  -fixed  on  Shake- 
speare with  a  half-terrified  expression. 
Shakespeare  is  at  centre  alone,  looking 
toward  front  with  the  same  expression 
of  profound  grief. .] 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Without  turning  his  head.~\ 
Southampton. 

[Southampton  advances  until  he  stands 
at  Shakespeare's  left.'] 

You,  possessing  all  that  life 
Can  give  to  man,  might  have  forborne  my 
Love. 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Her    beauty    conquered   me.     She   was    not 

pledged 
To  you,  or  any  other  man. 


33Q  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 


SHAKESPEARE 

You  plead 
As  ever  plead  the  darlings  of  this  world — 
Falsely — and  yet  as  if  of  pardon  sure. 
Yes — beauty    tempted — and     your    straying 

youth 
Has  led  you  in  its  riot  even  there. 
[Looking  toward  Elisabeth.] 
Where   twofold   truth   is    broken — hers   and 

yours 
Both  false  to  me. 
[To  Elisabeth.'] 

Come.     I  would  speak  with  you. 

[Elisabeth  comes  toward  him  slowly  with 

the  same  half-terrified  expression,  until 

she  stands  on  his  right.     Shakespeare 

turns  to  Southampton.] 

Do  you  love  her?    Have  care  to  say  what's 

true, 
For  there  is  that  in  me  that  in  this  hour 
Would  rise  with  ruin  for  you,  at  a  lie. 
Do  you  love  her? 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  331 

SOUTHAMPTON 

Ah!     Better  than  my  life! 

SHAKESPEARE 

How    often    have    I   heard    you    say    those 

words, 
Each  separate  time  about  a  different  woman ! 
[Southampton    attempts    to    speak,    but 

Shakespeare  silences  him  by  a  gesture 

and  turns  to  Elisabeth.] 
Do  you  love  him? 

ELISABETH 

[Her  head  is  bowed  as  if  in  deep  shame. 
Then  she  raises  it  and  speaks,  with  an 
effort  and  yet  with  daring.] 

I've  loved  so  many — that — 
I  do  not  know !    I  thought  that  I  loved  you ! 

SHAKESPEARE 

There  speaks  the  fearless  spirit  of  old  blood — ' 
The  Truth — ev'n  though  she  shames  herself! 
[To  Southampton.'] 


332  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Again — 
Speak  Boy — these  moments  give  you  time  for 

thought — 
What  is  your  love  for  her? 


SOUTHAMPTON 

Once  I  saw  fly 
A  strange,  wild   bird   my   falcon  could   not 

strike. 
I  watched  it  soar  and  thought  if  I  could  lure 
Its  beauty  to  my  wrist,  touch  its  fair  plumes, 
And  warmly  cherish  it  against  my  breast, 
I'd  be  content — ev'n  though  it  soared  away 
And  I  must  ever  win  it  back  again. 

SHAKESPEARE 

She  is  your  mate.     Wed  her.     Keep,  if  you 
can. 
[Elisabeth  looks  startled  and  makes  a 
motion  toward  Shakespeare,  as  if  to 
check  him.    He  turns  to  her.~\ 

And  you — again — what  is  this  man  to  you? 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  333 


ELISABETH 

[Slowly — as  if  unwilling  to  speak,  yet 

unable  to  be  silent. ,] 
He  is  a  Star — the  brightest  in  my  sky; 
There  is  a  constellation  where  he  shines, 
In  this  my  world,  the  only  world  I  know, 
He  is  a  Sun — and  where  his  radiance  falls 
Life  blooms,  and  every  hour  glows  fair  and 

rich 
With  promise  to  my  heart's  untamed  desires. 


SHAKESPEARE 

No  other  man  or  life  for  you.  Wed  him. 
[They  stand  silent  as  if  surprised  and 
shamed.  Southampton  advances  nearer 
Shakespeare,  and  then  withdraws  a 
few  steps  and  waits,  watching  Elisa- 
beth. She  does  not  appear  to  notice 
him  and  he  goes  out  at  left.  Elisabeth 
draws  nearer  to  Shakespeare,  who 
stands  looking  forward  with  deep  sad- 


334  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

ness,  but  complete  detachment  from 
her.  She  turns  away  as  if  awed.  Exit 
Elisabeth  at  left,  but  not  by  the  same 
exit  as  Southampton.  Shakespeare 
goes  to  the  stone  seat  at  right  and  sits. 
The  lights  on  the  Terrace  and  in  the 
shrubbery  flicker  and  go  out.  The 
stage  is  dark  except  for  a  gradual, 
slow  lighting  of  the  dark  star-strezvn 
sky,  which  begins  to  change  to  the 
luminous  blue  of  the  early  dawn. 
Petals  and  flowers  of  the  flowering 
shrubs  fall  to  the  ground.  Shakespeare 
slowly  takes  off  the  star  and  chain  and 
ribbon  of  the  Garter. ,] 
So  passes  all  the  Dream  and  Ecstasy! 

\Enter  quietly  and  timidly  from  right 
Peter  Dumpser  with  a  letter.  He  ap- 
proaches Shakespeare  and  gives  the 
letter  to  him.~\ 

PETER 

The  answer  to  your  letter,  Master  Will. 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  335 

SHAKESPEARE 

[With    kindness,     but    barely    noticing 
Peter.] 
Ah  Peter — safely  here  again — and  met 
No  lions  on  the  way! 

[He   gives  Peter   money.    Peter   waits 

a  moment   and   then  as   Shakespeare 

does  not  seem  to  be  conscious  of  his 

presence,  he  goes  out  as  quietly  as  he 

entered.    Shakespeare  opens  the  letter 

and  reads.] 

"  To  Will,  who  is  my  husband,  though  so  long 

away :   I  have  been  sick  of  the  Fever  that  has 

ravaged    Stratford,    but    now,    praise    God's 

goodness!  I  am  mending  and  will  soon  be 

again  in  health.     Whiles  I  was  sick,  by  night 

and  day,  I  thought  upon  you.     O  Will,  will 

you  come  home  to  us?     Your   father  and 

mother  wait   for  you.      Our  girls   are   well 

grown   and    fairer  than  pride    could   desire. 

Your  daughters  ask  for  you.     Never  will  I 

drive  you  from  us  again  as  I  did  once.    The 


336  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

gold  you  send  nurtures  us  richly,  but  'tis  you 
we  would  see.    We  wait  for  your  coming. 

Anne/' 
[He  lays  the  letter  beside  him  on  the 
seat."] 

Does  anyone 
On  earth  desire  me? 

[Enter  from  left  Elisabeth.  She  comes 
toward  him  hesitatingly  and  stands  at 
a  distance,  her  hands  clasped  as  if  in 
sup  plication. 1 

ELISABETH 

[With  almost  childlike  timidity.] 

I  thought  if  I 
Might  come  to  you  in  deep  humility, 
Confess  my  falseness  and  forgiveness  ask, 
This  shame   and   pain  that  burn   my   heart 
would  go. 

SHAKESPEARE 

[Looking  at  her  as  if  spellbound.] 
How  wondrous  are  you  now  as  you   stand 
there ! 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  337 

How  dark  and  false!     An  angel  ever  dark 
And  yet  to  me,  loved  still — though  ever  false. 

ELISABETH 

I  meant  not  to  be  false! 

SHAKESPEARE! 

I  see  you  now 
As  souls  barred  out  of  Paradise  must  see 
Within  its  gate,  their  fair,  forbidden  Loves. 

ELISABETH 

[Goes  to  him  impulsively  and  kneels  by 
the  stone  seat.  His  arm  rests  on  the 
curved  end  of  it  and  she  bends  her 
head  as  if  to  lean  it  upon  his  arm.  He 
draws  his  arm  away  roughly.'] 

SHAKESPEARE 

No  potions  shall  I  drink  of  Siren's  tears 
Distilled  from  limbecks  foul  as  hell  within! 

ELISABETH 

[She  weeps,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands.] 
How  pitiless  you  are! 


338  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

SHAKESPEARE 

How  pitiless 
You  are! 

ELISABETH 

[She  rises  and  half  turns  away.~\ 

Then  un forgiven,  must  I  go! 

*  SHAKESPEARE 

[He  springs  from  his  seat.     She  turns 
toward  him.~\ 
O  for  forgiveness — why,  that  has  no  part 
In  love!     For  love  is  love,  and  covers  all 
Both  good  and  ill.     No  more  of  that!    And 

now 
For  you  and  me. 

[Elizabeth   sits    on    the   bench.    Shake- 
speare stands  near  her!\ 

You  will  go  hence  from  me 
To  meet  another  life  apart  from  mine, 
Another  man's  brand  on  you,  blurring  mine. 
I,  to  the  life  my  blindness  and  my  fate 
Made  for  me  years  ago.     So  lest  the  world 
Should  task  you  to  recite  what  merit  lived 
In  me,  that  you  should  love,  forget  me  quite, 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  339 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your 
moan 

!And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone! 

For  I,  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  for- 
got, 

If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 

ELISABETH 

[Despairingly. ] 
In  gaining  Southampton  I  won  the  world, 
In  losing  you  I  lost  my  soul! 

SHAKESPEARE 

The  soul 
Is  made  of  stronger  stuff!    Listen  to  me. 
You  cast  a  lure,  a  magical  rose-film 
Around  my  life.     So  potent  in  its  spell 
I   scarcely   dared  to  breathe,  lest  it   should 

break 
And  I  should  die.     Pushed  on,  on  every  side 
Out  of  its  magic  I  was  thrust.     It  broke — 
And  in  the  throes  of  that  dark  agony 
I    knew   not   Death — but    strangely   greater 

Life. 


340  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

And  that  this  mighty  love  I  bear  for  you 

May  bloom  for  you,  I  bid  you  to  a  tryst 

In  some  bright  unseen  Star,  some  unknown 

Star, 
Where  all  Heaven's  debts  are  paid  to  thwarted 

man. 
[He    pauses — then    looks    wonderingly 

about  the  garden.] 
That  blindness  that  so  cursed  my  life  is  gone. 
See  you  how  vast  this  garden  has  become. 
As  if  an  amphitheatre  of  the  world, 
All  filled  with  fresh,  robust,  substantial  life — 

[Elisabeth  rises  startled.'] 
Life  that  outlives  our  brief,  tormented  span? 
[He  turns  toward  Elisabeth  and  lays  his 

hand  on  her  arm  and  speaks  with  awe\ 
We  are  not  here  alone. 

ELISABETH 

Alas,  he  raves! 
His  o'ercharged  heart  has  turned  his  noble 

mind. 
What  sin  to  play  with  such  a  mighty  flame ! 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  341 

SHAKESPEARE 

See  you  who  come  ? 

ELISABETH 

No,  I  see  none. 

SHAKESPEARE 

Quite  blind! 
[He  turns  from  her.  Elisabeth  shrinks 
back  in  terror;  then  returns  and  holds 
out  her  arms  to  Shakespeare.  Seeing 
that  he  does  not  seem  conscious  of  her 
presence,  she  goes  out,  her  head  droop- 
ing, at  right.  Shakespeare  looks  toward 
the  left  at  back.~\ 

They  come!     How  strange — and  yet  so  close 
my  heart, 

Its  every  throb  pulses  to  give  them  life. 

[In  the  dim  light  at  the  back  of  the  stage 
at  right,  a  shadowy  procession  of 
figures  pass.  They  are  seen  but  dimly. 
They  represent  Hamlet,  Macbeth, 
Othello,  Lear  and,  last,  Prospero.    As 


342  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

they  pass  each  stops,  turns  and  looks 
at  Shakespeare,  and  then  passes  on, 
Shakespeare  speaks  as  if  dazed  and 
dreaming.'] 

What  beautiful,  majestic  forms  are  these! 

That  princely  youth  who  pierces  to  my  soul 

With     sad    and    supplicating    eyes.     Those 
kings, 

Unknown  and  mighty — that  most  noble  Moor 

With  soul  convulsed  by  an  immortal  grief. 
[He  advances  a  jew  steps  nearer  the  pro- 
cession of  figures.'] 

Command  me,  O  ye  noble  ones  and  great! 
[He  covers  his  eyes  with  his  hand.] 

I  am  your  servant,  and  would  gladlier 

Serve  you,  than  any  on  this  earth. 
[Exit  figures,  all  but  Prosper o.] 

Who  comes? 

What  gravity  of  life!     What  wisdom  stored! 

What  passion  past!    What  powers  laid  aside! 

Shall    be  so  one  day?    You  make  me  fear, 

Grave  Shape.     In  thee  I  seem  to  see,  the  man 

To  come  in  me. 


WILL    SHAKESPEARE  343 

[He  clasps  his  hands  as  if  in  prayer.] 
.     My  charms  are  all  o'er  thrown 
And  what  strength  I  have's  mine  own 
Which  is  most  faint     . 

.     Now  I  want 
Spirits  to  enforce,  art  to  enchant; 
And  my  ending  is  despair, 
Unless  I  be  relieved  by  prayer; 
Which  pierces  so  that  it  assaults 
Mercy  itself,  and  frees  all  faults." 

[Exit  Prospero.  Shakespeare  passes  his 
hand  across  his  eyes  as  if  awakening 
from  a  dream.] 

They're  gone! 
Were    they    then    ever   here?    I    saw    them 

plain. 
There's  that  in  this  I  do  not  understand! 
They   live   in   me,    and   I   must    give   them 

Life, 
And    show    their    greatness    to    a    listening 

world. 
The  gift  is  mine,  and  I  shall  hold  it  fast. 

[The  sky  is  changing  from  the  clear  deep 


344  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

blue  of  early  morning  to  the  rose  of 
dawn.     He  looks  about."} 
Elisabeth!     Gone  too!     And  yet,  still  mine! 

[He  sits  on  the  bench."} 
I   know   and  hold   my  power  in  my   grasp, 
Mightier  than  my  hopes. 

[With  a  sudden  change  to  keen  emo- 
tion.} 

But,  O  my  Heart! 
When  will  the  life  be  sweet? 

[In  the  centre  of  the  rose  sky  near  the 
horizon,  a  luminous  gold  light  is  seen, 
as  if  the  sun  were  about  to  break 
forth.} 

I  recall  once 
I   wandered   in   the  spring  in  flower-strewn 

fields, 
And  held  my  little  daughters  by  the  hand; 
Close,  close  to  me  on  either  side,  they  walked 
With  baby  steps,  breast-deep  in  daffodils. 
The    sun    poured    beams   upon   their   golden 
heads, 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  345 

The  whole  world  laughed,  and  love  and  joy 
secure 

Stole  in  my  heart  and  asked  that  they  might 
stay. 
\_He  takes   the  letter  in  his  hand   and 
reads.  ] 

"Your  daughters  ask  for  you."     The  day  I 
fled 

From  home,   they  called — "  Sweet  Father — 
let  us  come 

To  you."     Should  I  have  stayed?    Has  all 
this  pain, 

This  empty  heart,  come  from  the  following 

Of  what  seemed  then  the  only  path  to  tread? 

Do  they  still  call  for  me?    Is  it  too  late 

To  go  to  them? 

[The  round  disc  of  the  gold  light  in  the 
sky  has  grown  more  brilliant.  It  be- 
comes transparent  and  there  is  seen 
within  its  circle  the  figures  of  two 
young  girls  of  about  fifteen  and  six- 
teen years.  They  are  standing  in  a 
field  of  tall  grass,  daffodils  and  cow- 


346  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

slips,  in  golden  sunlight.  The  blue  sky 
is  above  and  behind  them.  Their  yel- 
low hair  falls  on  their  shoulders.  They 
are  bending,  absorbed  in  gathering  the 
-flowers.  Shakespeare  rises,  turns  and 
sees  them.  He  looks  in  wondering 
joy.  They  raise  their  heads  smiling, 
as  if  touched  by  some  loving  influence. 
Shakespeare  speaks  wtih  passionate 
joy.] 

My  Children!     Darling  Ones! 

My  Own !     With  you  to  stay  my  empty  heart, 

[He  half  turns  to  front  and  speaks  with 

triumph.'] 

I'll  make  those  Shapes  Majestic  lately  here, 

Immortal  in  this  world. 

[He  turns  and  holds  out  his  arms  to  his 
daughters.] 

Dear  Ones,  I  come! 
[The  vision  vanishes.     Sunlight  Hoods 
the  scene.] 

CURTAIN 
END  OF   PLAY 


Note  I. — The  play  is  historically  accurate  as 
to  dates,  principal  events,  etc.  In  some  in- 
stances, actual  conversations  between  some  of 
the  characters  have  been  recorded  in  old  private 
letters  written  in  Latin,  of  which  but  two  copies 
of  translations  are  in  existence. 

Note  II. — In  the  latter  part  of  Act  III,  and 
in  Act  IV,  where  Shakespeare  speaks  of  his 
love,  he  has  in  several  instances  been  permitted 
to  speak  for  himself  in  the  words  of  the  son- 
nets. Where  he  has  done  so,  the  words  are 
in  italics. 

Note  III. — To  Mr.  Roger  Laneham,  of  the 
Court  of  Queen  Elisabeth,  Florian's  grateful 
thanks  are  due. 


SHAKESPEARE. 
An  Overture — Fantasia. 

FOR   THE   PLAY 

WILL   SHAKESPEARE 

OF 

STRATFORD   AND   LONDON. 
Synopsis  of  the   Overture — Fantasia. 

PRELUDE. 

Sylvan  Music — Then  Romantic  and  Passion- 
ate— Then  Sylvan  again,  which  continues  for 
a  few  moments  after  the  curtain  rises. 

ACT  I 

I.  Song  for  Shakespeare,  without  accompani- 
ment. 

II.  Song,   Quartette   for  male  voices,  no  ac- 
companiment. 

INTERLUDE 

Between  Act  I  and  Act  II 
Expressing  stormy  emotion  and  anger — which 
dies  away  into  music  expressing  night  and  re- 
pose, and  then  returns  to  the  stormy  emotion — 
349 


350  WILL    SHAKESPEARE 

Then  melts  into  a  spinning  song  in  which  the 
instruments  imitate  the  whir  and  thump  of  a 
spinning   wheel. 

ACT  II 

Scene  I 

I.    March  for  the  Players  entering  Stratford. 

Interlude 

Between  Scene  I  of  Act  II  and  Scene  II, 
again  expressing  night  and  repose  which  con- 
tinues after  the  curtain  rises.  Love  Motif  first 
occurs. 

Scene  II 

Music  for  a  moonlight  procession  of  young 
people  who  drift  across  the  stage  with  soft 
laughter  in  the  darkness,  lighted  only  by  moon- 
light. 

Interlude 
Between  Act   II   and   Act   III,   representing 
Splendor  of  Life  and  Love.    Love  motive. 

ACT  III 

I.  Love  Song  accompanied  by  orchestra.  It 
is  a  Quartette  for  the  four  parts,  Soprano, 
Alto,  Tenor,  Bass. 

II.  Music  for  a  procession  of  guests,  or- 
chestral. 


WILL   SHAKESPEARE  351 

Interlude 
Repeating    Love    motive,    which    leads    into 
Revelry  music,  which  continues  after  the  cur- 
tain rises. 

ACT  IV 

I.  Bacchanal  Music. 

II.  Song  for  Satyrs  and  Fauns  with  orchestral 
accompaniment. 

III.  Love  motive  and  Bacchanal  music.     Love 

music. 

Finale 

Of   Elevated,   serious   music,   Emotional,  yet 
almost  Religious  in  character. 


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